Authors: Isabelle Lafleche
W
inston Churchill said,
Success is going from failure to failure without losing enthusiasm
. I must admit that mine is starting to wane. Antoine and I are waiting for Rikash at Willi’s Wine Bar on rue des Petits Champs. We’re seated at the front oak bar, pretending to enjoy the red wine the bartender recommended while anxiously keeping an eye out for the man of the hour.
I received a text from Rikash two hours after I left the office asking me to meet him somewhere in the 1st arrondissement. His message was cryptic and involved the words “urgent” and “top secret,” so I coaxed Antoine into coming with me. I’ve come to realize that it’s foolish for Rikash and me to keep trying to handle things on our own. After tonight, I’m calling it quits on our undercover mission.
“Do you think Rikash has managed to get anywhere with
this, or has it all been a colossal waste of time?” Antoine asks. “I’ve told you, I don’t want you fooling around with these guys, whoever they are. Your lives could be in danger, Catou.” He reaches for my hand, and I’m comforted.
“You’re right. But Rikash is sure he’s on the right track,” I say, reaching for an olive from a platter on the bar.
“I want these threats to stop. It’s gotten out of hand, don’t you think?” He absent-mindedly picks up his glass of wine and swirls it before continuing. “A fake profile of you on an S&M website? Imagine what else they can do to intimidate you. It’s only going to get worse.”
I stare pensively out the window. As long as I’m director of intellectual property at Dior, dealing with counterfeiters will come with the territory. But I do need to draw the line at my reputation.
Rikash is out of breath when he finally arrives, and looks as though he’s seen a ghost. I ask the waiter to bring him a glass of water, and he drinks it in one gulp, then pats his forehead with his silk pocket square.
“I don’t know where to start,” he says.
Antoine attempts to calm him down by patting him on the back. “The beginning would be a good place.”
“I’m feeling dizzy. I need to eat.” Rikash looks around for a menu. Antoine shoots me a quizzical glance, but I shake my head. I have no clue why Rikash is in such a state, but for once I don’t think he’s just being dramatic.
We head to the dining room, where we are approached by a
young waiter who resembles Prince Harry. He makes sweet eyes at Rikash but is completely ignored. That makes me nervous. Whatever Rikash has uncovered must be
very
serious.
After Rikash has devoured an entire bread basket—another shocker, since he shuns carbs—he finally manages to tell us what happened.
“I tracked down the caller’s number via Catherine’s cellphone and was able to link it to an address. Once I got there, I didn’t want to look like I was lurking about, so I sat in the courtyard next door, pretending to read a book, and waited.” He gulps another glass of water. “I’d been there for about forty minutes when I saw a man come out onto the balcony. He was young, with a black leather jacket and slicked-back hair. He was talking loudly on the phone and had an American accent, so I was sure it was our man. He left the apartment just a few minutes after I saw him.”
Antoine and I nod, like two young children riveted by a ghost tale by the campfire.
“I sat out in the courtyard for another twenty minutes, and then another man appeared. He lit a cigarette and looked in my general direction, so I pulled out my phone and took some pictures—discreetly, of course. After a few minutes, he went back inside.” Rikash pulls his phone from his jacket pocket. “If I’m not mistaken, this is a familiar face.”
He turns the screen toward us and Antoine gasps. My hands fly up to my mouth. “
Oh
mon dieu
, it can’t be!” Rikash and I have seen this man in pictures in the company archives. It’s
Pierre Le Furet, my predecessor at Dior. My mouth is agape, my heart is beating fast, and my enthusiasm for this mission just came roaring back.
“
A
llez
, a toast to our guests!” Sandrine raises her Champagne flute. Antoine and I are seated on an antique sofa in her elegantly appointed living room, getting better acquainted with her husband, Arnaud.
Antoine and I have had a hard time sleeping since Rikash’s big discovery four days ago. Although we were shocked by the news—Antoine most of all, since he worked with Le Furet—we are both high on the thrill of the chase. It makes sense now: Le Furet is collaborating with counterfeiters! Maybe that’s why he left Dior; perhaps the retirement story was just a cover. Sandrine seems to react oddly every time his name is mentioned. Maybe that’s because she was forced to fire him after his unlawful activities were uncovered.
Rikash and I are nearly ready to share our findings with Sandrine and Frédéric. We expect that a formal investigation will ensue, charges will be pressed, and we’ll be able to continue
on with our work without these threats—or at least fewer of them. But Rikash has insisted that we wait just a few more days, to give him a chance to gather more evidence. His plan is to stake out Le Furet’s apartment over the weekend and try to catch him on film. The covert investigation feels a bit over the top, but it’s giving me a feeling of excitement I’ve never experienced before. I’m starting to agree with Katherine Hepburn, who said,
If you obey all the rules, you miss all the fun
.
Arnaud is seated across from us in an opulent wing chair. He’s friendly, if a little distant. He’s dressed in a Prince of Wales sports coat, grey flannel pants with a light blue shirt, and a Patek Philippe watch. He’s tall, tanned, and debonair, and has the look of a former tennis champion, just as I imagined him.
Sandrine’s home could be featured in
Architectural Digest
: cream leather couches are tastefully mixed with both modern and antique pieces. A large Cy Twombly painting hangs over the fireplace, and family portraits line the impressive hallway.
Sandrine is friendly tonight. “Antoine, Catherine tells me you’re one of the brightest legal minds in Paris. I understand you worked on a few matters for us.”
“Yes, Pierre Le Furet asked me to do some research on U.S. anti-counterfeiting laws for your company’s internal policies and procedures.”
“I see.” She lights up a cigarette. “He never mentioned your work. Did you handle other files for him?” Her gaze zeros in on him, and I wonder if she thinks Antoine could have been in cahoots with Le Furet. There’s a lot of subtext going on here.
He nods. “I sent out cease and desist letters to copyright infringers in the United States.”
“Edwards & White breeds lots of talent,” she allows, turning toward me. “Catherine’s done a fantastic job so far, out on raids and in the courts, but I do prefer having her by my side in the office.”
I hope to get back out on the streets with Chris and the gendarmes, but she’s complimenting my work, so I decide to keep quiet. “Thank you, Sandrine. I’m really enjoying it so far.”
“You’re about to get an eyeful,” she says, taking an elegant drag from her cigarette, her wrist delicately bent skyward as she exhales. “Fashion Week begins tomorrow and it’s one big
fête
.”
“So I understand.” I look toward Antoine and try to bring him back into the conversation. “Antoine also assisted Pierre in lobbying for changes in U.S. copyright laws.”
“
C’est vrai?
” She reaches for a goat cheese canapé and suddenly looks interested. I sigh with relief.
“It was fascinating to discuss the future of copyright with the big players on Seventh Avenue,” Antoine says with enthusiasm. “It would be great if the United States finally enacted laws to protect fashion designs.”
I peer at Sandrine’s husband out of the corner of my eye. He’s pouring himself another whiskey, looking a little bored by our conversation. It hits me that Sandrine and Arnaud haven’t made eye contact with each other since we’ve arrived. Clearly, all is not well in the 16th arrondissement.
I try to find a way to include him. It’s a breach of French
etiquette to ask Arnaud personal questions so soon after meeting him, but surely Antoine and I can charm him.
“What about you, Arnaud. What kind of work do you do?”
He holds his glass of whiskey awkwardly in mid-air for a moment. “Not much these days, I’m afraid,” he finally says, a bit tensely. “I was let go a few months ago from my position as a managing director at an investment bank.” He looks at me and laughs. “My racquetball game has greatly improved, though.”
Sandrine, now uncomfortable, squashes her cigarette into an expensive-looking porcelain ashtray and crosses her legs, glaring at her husband.
Antoine tries to smooth things over. “I’m sorry to hear that, Arnaud. I have several clients who are going through the same thing. I can sympathize.”
I squeeze Antoine’s hand tenderly, relieved that he’s covering for my faux pas.
“Thanks, Antoine. I appreciate that.” Arnaud takes another sip of his drink. “It’s refreshing to hear some words of support.” He glowers in Sandrine’s direction, and she responds with a glacial stare. “Lucky for me, Sandrine is always here to save the day.”
Sandrine ignores him and stands up. “Shall we?” she says, gesturing toward the dining room. As soon as I’m on my feet, Arnaud puts his arm in mine. “I’m dying to hear about that trial in New York, Mademoiselle Lambert,” he says, seeming more relaxed now. “I read about it in the
Journal
, and I admire your
savoir faire
.”
I walk with Arnaud down the narrow hallway, shooting Antoine a look that says,
Please save me now
. He winks and continues making conversation with Sandrine. I’m comforted that he has my back. We walk past a vintage black-and-white photo of a surfer, and I blurt out, “Antoine loves to surf.”
“Non! C’est pas vrai?”
Sandrine flashes him a dazzling smile.
“Yes, I took lessons in Sydney on college break once, many years ago.”
“I’ve been dying to learn! I hear Elle Macpherson is amazing at it. Perhaps you can teach me?” Sandrine puts a hand on Antoine’s shoulder, a little flirtatiously it seems to me.
I decide to ignore her. She’s probably just getting back at her husband for sharing details about their private life. It’s the oldest trick in the book. Despite her veneer of wealth and glamour, maybe she’s genuinely unhappy. I feel a little bit bad for her. But just a little.
“Whoa, have you ever met a couple less in sync than those two?” Antoine says once we’ve settled into his car for the drive home.
“I’m so sorry to have put you through that. I was just trying to get you in on the eShop lawsuit.”
“I appreciate it, but I don’t really care about that anymore, Catou. I just want us to be happy—unlike those two.”
“Her husband looked miserable, didn’t he?”
“He’s with her for the money, I think,” Antoine says, turning toward the Champs Élysées. “It must come from her family.”
“It’s a sad reason to stay in a relationship. No wonder they don’t seem close.”
“No kidding. I wouldn’t want to live in that place, no matter how beautiful it is.”
“I wonder what Arnaud meant when he said Sandrine always saves the day.” I open the window to get some fresh air. It’s a welcome treat after the claustrophobic evening.
“Maybe she spent some time on the old
promotion canapé
. Is it possible she got where she is by sleeping her way up?”
“Noooo … you think?”
“It could be.”
I look out wistfully at the shimmering Eiffel Tower, feeling a little saddened by the evening’s turn of events. Sandrine’s mood swings are making me wonder about the wisdom of Rikash’s plan. Who knows how she’ll react when she discovers we’ve been following a former Dior employee behind her back. My train of thought is interrupted when I realize that Antoine has missed our turn.
“You just passed the bridge,” I say. He stays quiet. “Unless … we aren’t going home?”
He smiles naughtily. “You’re correct about that.”
“
Ah bon
, and why not?”
“There’s somewhere we need to check into instead.”
“Check into? You mean a hotel?” I ask, pleasantly surprised.
I get a nod and a grin in return.
“How fabulous! Which one?”
He’s determined to surprise me. We zoom through the city until we get to rue de Navarin, in the 9th arrondissement near Pigalle. He stops the car in front of Hôtel Amour, a happening boutique hotel, and I grin like a Cheshire cat. We check in and climb the tiny staircase, taking in the erotic art on the walls and giggling. When we reach our room, Antoine opens the door to black lacquered walls, sexy vintage magazines, and a very large bed. He throws my handbag to the floor and begins to kiss me while unzipping my dress.
I interrupt his ardour. “You always manage to save the day, don’t you,
mon chéri?
”
He laughs as we fall to the black satin sheets and turn out the light.
Vive la différence
.
“W
here are you?” I ask Rikash over the phone as I’m browsing at Ragtime, one of my favourite vintage shops on rue de l’Echaudé. I adore its selection of little dresses by Cardin and Saint Laurent, and have become friends with the owner. The dainty vintage dresses and skirts have become my uniform, and I’ve been accessorizing them with modern costume jewellery and Dior heels.
“In hot pursuit.” He’s walking fast, I can tell, because he’s huffing into his phone.
“What do you mean?” I have visions of Rikash trailing Pierre Le Furet around Paris like Eliot Ness in purple cashmere.
“We’re dealing with something major. I’ve seen cash being exchanged, and I’ve recognized some faces from our raids with Chris. You need to meet me as soon as possible. I need backup.” His voice is uncharacteristically tense.
“Okay, where?” I drop two vintage dresses onto the counter in my haste.
“I’ve overheard conversations. Something big is going down in the Jardin des Tuileries later this afternoon. Can we meet near there?”
I think fast. “Let’s try to be inconspicuous and go somewhere you’d naturally be on a Saturday afternoon.”
“Colette’s water bar. See you there in thirty minutes.”
Colette is Paris’s hottest concept store. It’s a pioneering retailer that offers an eclectic selection of
objets d’art
, fashion accessories, CDs, and books to a savvy international clientele.
Rikash is sitting downstairs at the water bar, sporting a sideways baseball cap, giant sunglasses, a T-shirt bearing an illustration of Bernadette Chirac, ripped jeans, and bright green sneakers.
“If you’re trying to go incognito, it isn’t working,” I joke, but he doesn’t bite. Instead, he yanks his cap further down and lifts a newspaper in front of his face.
“Have a seat, dah-ling. But please remain discreet in case we’re being watched.”
“Okay, got it.” I smile exaggeratedly and pretend to read a magazine someone’s left behind on the table. “What’s going on?” I ask.
He scans the room from behind his shades before responding. “Something B-I-G.” He slides his glasses to the tip of his
nose and looks straight into my eyes. “I caught Le Furet on film with a man we saw on our first raid—the one who took our picture.”
“Oh!” I have flashbacks to the angry vendor spitting on the ground and telling his accomplice to take pictures of us. He’s right, this is major.
“The good news is, I managed to plant a tiny microphone in his leather jacket. It was hanging on the back of a chair in a bistro, and I had an opportunity when he went to the bar for a drink.”
I’m blown away by Rikash’s fearlessness. “Okay, so now what?” Call me crazy, but I’m convinced he has this sting operation under control, so I’ll let him call the shots.
“I overheard them arranging another meeting in the Tuileries at four. This might break the case wide open.” He adjusts his cap and looks at his watch. “We have thirty minutes to get there, sweetie. Let’s hit the road.”
We take the stairs up to the main floor, where a DJ is spinning trance music and a crowd of young hipsters is shopping for designer tchotchkes. There are gold balloons at the entrance in honour of Fashion Week. As we approach the door, Rikash pushes me behind a tall rack of sneakers. “Oh my god, Le Furet just walked by! Let’s wait a moment. Then we can follow him.”
We exit onto rue Saint-Honoré. Le Furet is walking briskly and carrying a black leather suitcase. Rikash signals for me to keep up, but it’s a little tough in my Miu Miu platform heels. I feel like Diane Keaton in Woody Allen’s
Manhattan Murder Mystery
.
When Le Furet suddenly turns around, Rikash grabs my arm and pulls me into Manoush, a French boutique best described as the Gypsy Kings meet Bollywood. To keep us from being spotted through the window, he holds a bright fuchsia dress adorned with oversized feathers up in front of us. The feathers tickle my nose, and I can’t suppress a sneeze. An employee gives us an evil stare and suggests with her eyes that we leave the premises if we’re going to mess with the merchandise.
“That bitch nearly blew our cover,” Rikash says, panting, when we’re out on the street again. “Remind me not to shop there anymore.”
“‘Anymore?’ You mean you’ve actually bought clothes there?”
“Well, sure. Boas and sparkly jackets, for gay pride, you know. I love their collection, but not her.”
“I think we lost him,” I say, looking down the street for Le Furet.
“It doesn’t matter. I know where he’s headed. Let’s go.”
During Fashion Week, the Jardin des Tuileries is jammed with fashionistas, editors, models, bloggers, and various varieties of hangers-on. A giant tent is installed at one end of the park for the shows themselves. Before anyone actually hits the runway, young women strut about in the garden in pieces from the season’s most recent collections. An impressive number of
street-style photographers take their photos while the magazine editors and celebrities make their way to their seats. The street-stylers have become celebrities in their own right, and their mini photo shoots are a giant spectacle that impedes everyone’s entrance to the shows.
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?”