From Paris With Love (17 page)

Right…12345678, Querty, letmein, welcome, iloveyou… No, none of them worked. She must have used something personal, so I thought back to the interview Edward had translated, in that bar… Monique studied ballet in
Nanterre
… Check again…Nope, that word didn’t work. Her Russian boyfriend was called
Andrei
… and belonged to the
Bolshoi
ballet. She liked
Afghani
restaurants. Nah. None of those were the password.

I pulled my cardigan tightly around me, headed for the balcony and opened the doors. Brr. The air felt as cold as the double bed last night, without Edward in it to keep me warm. I peered down at Saturday shoppers buying fruit and veg from the grocer’s opposite. Beneath me, a long queue snaked out of The Golden Croissant. Mmm, wish I could bottle that sweet, homely, comforting smell.

With another shiver, I left the ornate black balcony bars and closed the glass doors behind me. Think hard, Agent G. What on earth would that snooty, superior woman use as her password?

My insides tugged as I sat down on the sofa. Is it possible that…? Might her password be “Edward”?

No. She’d only known him for a couple of weeks. However, a niggle grew in my stomach. Slowly, I typed in the letters E… d….w… a… r… d and gasped. My heart raced. Really… I mean,
really
? Monique didn’t waste any time – my only-just-Ex’s name
had
worked.

A jab of something unpleasant pierced my chest, as I remembered Joe saying that passwords reflected what a person held “most dear”. I took a deep breath. The important thing was that I’d finally accessed Monique’s inbox and could now officially rule her out from my investigation. See how I’d matured? A few months ago an adrenalin rush would have sent me out to hunt that flirty French vulture down, armed with my blue-staining pepper spray.

Forcing myself to concentrate, I took another swig of caffeine before scrolling down her emails. They were mostly about boring stuff to directors about auditions, rehearsals, costumes… Lots had attachments containing scripts, which was probably why she needed a laptop and couldn’t use her phone. I yawned and scrolled down a couple more.

The next down was to her little sister and an uncomfortable sensation pinched my stomach as I read the personal message. No point feeling guilty, though – as an important unofficial cog in the machinery of Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service, I had to be hardnosed. It was a sweet email and not at all what I’d expect from self-obsessed Monique – she promised to send what money she could afford, to help with her sister’s college tuition fees. No wonder Monique couldn’t afford her own laptop. She was probably borrowing Edward’s by now. By the sounds of it, their dad didn’t help out much, and what with her mum having recently passed away…

Hey ho – a bit of kindheartedness made Monique an even less likely candidate for Terror. I went to stand up, to wash my hair for work, when the next email down caught my eye. It had been sent to a group of people simply called Undisclosed Recipients. In the subject line were three letters: MWM.

I rolled my eyes. Okay, momentarily I thought they referred to MiddleWin Mort – as if. No doubt they stood for MoniqueWantsMen… Gentle, kind, unassuming English ones, who couldn’t see through her devious comments… With another yawn, I tapped on my phone and the email opened. Dear friends, bla, bla, bla…all in French and something about dance and the words “
barre
” and “
plié
”.

The air drained from my lungs and everything went black, as the room spun. Didn’t Joe say that the offending emails had contained coded dance terms? Monique had also typed “
en deux semaines
” which meant in two weeks… Bloody hell! That’s when the commemorative football match was. And, sure enough, the next words were: MiddleWin Mort.

No. There had to be some mistake. My eyes widened as I studied every syllable, letter and punctuation mark. She had also typed something about not failing and that success would mean great honour. The hairs stood up on the back of my neck. Her talk reminded me of quotes in the papers, from terrorists, over the last few years. Did this email detail a suicide mission?

I palm-slapped my forehead. How could I not have guessed it was Monique? After all, she had trained as a ballerina – dance terms would be the obvious code for her to choose. I read the email again. Right at the bottom she’d arranged a meeting – eight o’clock tomorrow night at some address near the Gare du Nord. Deep breaths. Okay. I’d be there, in the shadows, with my spray and handbag which could summon Joe if I got caught.

I felt like palm-slapping my forehead again as all the clues I’d missed fell into place – her favourite restaurant was Afghani… Didn’t they train terrorists in Afghanistan? And her floaty clothes – perhaps they reflected a more modest Middle Eastern dress sense than a desire to make a fashion statement. Plus, could her love of fencing be less of a hobby and more a form of self-defence or ability to kill?

I stood up. Not that two-faced, man-eating Monique scared me – even if she fought as well as the fencing instructor Verity, played by Madonna, in the Bond film
Die Another Day
. Thanks to my self-defence training, I knew how to break her nose in one move. She’d better watch out. I’d not allow a poxy actress to harm KMid and Wills.

Proud as punch of my password-cracking skills, I texted Joe – informed him I’d discovered evidence about the MiddleWin Mort and would have more to tell him in twenty-four hours. I mentioned the meeting that I was going to secretly stake out, without giving him an address. Joe was busy and I wanted to prove that he was right to pick me and I could crack this case on my own.

I practically skipped into the shower, humming Madonna’s theme tune to
Die Another Day
. This song still played in my mind one hour later, when I was in work, buttoned-up chef’s coat on, eager to see Monique arrive with Edward and her friends tonight – she’d booked a table to celebrate the successful run of her play which had come to an end. Her email’s words,
en deux semaines
, reminded me that there was no time to lose. It was now the middle of February and the match was at the beginning of March. I would take photos of her and her companions to send to Joe. Who knew how many of the world’s most most-wanted terrorists might be amongst them?

Chapter 15

‘Pudding! Where is your head tonight…?’ said JC, followed by a few words in French that sounded mega rude.

Soon on a plate, no doubt, if he had anything to do with it.

‘The last batch of hollandaise sauce tasted too floury. Attention! Think texture, colour, taste, just like Cindy explained.’

‘Um, sorry chef,’ I mumbled. ‘I did check my notes but agree, must do better – the next spare moment I have will be spent practising, until I get it one hundred percent right.’

I lifted up a lovely notebook bought a week or so ago from this ace cheap supermarket called Monoprix. A sketched Eiffel Tower decorated the front. Inside, I’d written everything JC and Cindy had taught me, from the best way to hold a chopping knife, to the ingredients for a very exclusive truffle sauce. Out of the corner of his eye, JC glanced at my book and his face softened.

‘Show me zat book some time, if you like Pudding,’ he said. ‘It would please me to check that all the notes are correct.’

I beamed. Cook Kathleen, back at Applebridge Hall, would be mega impressed with everything I’d learnt. Finally I’d been promoted to producing something more creative than a heap of chopped carrots. But the pressure had been intense. My armpits felt sticky and perspiration (Lady C said never to call it “sweat”) drizzled down my chest. For hours, steam and all sorts of noises – spitting, hissing and frying – had filled the kitchen. Chefs could make millions by creating their own whisking, chopping, stirring, scrubbing fitness DVDs.

I glanced at the clock and yawned – it had just gone quarter to midnight and I now found it impossible to concentrate, especially as I knew there was at least one terrorist – Monique – in the building. I needed to get out there and take photos of the actress and her friends, before they left. I’d not seen her yet, this evening, but Cindy nipped out to fetch JC a double espresso and saw her coming through the door with a mix of friends – although not Edward. Apparently he had some stomach bug.

‘You’ve done fine tonight, honey, and could probably do with a quick break from this steamy air,’ said Cindy in a low voice. Today her peroxide hair was scraped back to reveal Bambi earrings. ‘Saturday night is always stressful and JC’s been angrier than a slapped wasp, since that vegetarian sent back the shiitake mushroom curry, insisting the steak-like flavour must have come from meat. Go on – you finish now, sugar.’ Cindy cleared her throat, ‘JC, I’m just gonna send Gemma to the front of house to ask Hugo if that chicken liver pasta we’re pushing is going down well. Then she’ll go home.’

Like a horse, JC harrumphed and Cindy winked, as she moved to my workstation to plate up the last desserts. Gratefully, I headed through the swing doors, carefully avoiding the waiters going to and fro. Hugo was busy clearing a table, so I nipped behind the bar and glugged back a glass of icy water. Pierre appeared by the coffee machine to prepare the last customers’ bills.

‘Business has been excellent tonight,’ he said and ran a hand through his thick hair.

‘Had any comments about the new chicken liver dish?’ I forced myself not to pull a face which said “yuk”!

Pierre nodded as he set up several coffee cups. ‘
Oui
. You can tell JC that once again he has created a masterpiece. The feedback is
magnifique
. Plus the salmon with hollandaise sauce went down very well.’

My chest glowed and I stood just a tiny bit taller than I had, in recent days. Considering I used to be the queen of the microwave, I wasn’t doing at all badly. But, glad to be away from the baking hot kitchen, I gazed across the restaurant at Monique, whose feminine, tinkling laugh carried above other diners’ chat.

Oh
please
. My eyes scoured her table. There was playwright Anton, hands like a conductor’s as he talked animatedly. Mime artist Chantale looked as sleek as ever, with her super straight bobbed hair and high-necked plum silk blouse.

I turned away, spotted a plant pot that had fallen over and headed over to pull it up. Except, oops! I collided with a customer coming out of the gents’ toilets. I stared at the black buckled boots and straightened up to say soz.

Wow. I let out a gasp, as if I was in a vacuum jar and just had the air sucked out of my lungs. My heart beat against the inside of my chest as if it were playing a rap song.

Those inky eyes, that teasing smile… This guy sizzled hotter than bacon and a wave of heat rose up from my stomach and into my cheeks. Not that I was anywhere near over Edward. Since we’d split up, life felt kind of… small… enclosed, like a room without a window… But that didn’t stop me appreciating other guys, right? And this one gave me the sensation of just having scoffed the most amazin’, smooth, creamy chocolate bar – mmm, very nice.

He grinned. Wow. Love that black lipstick, the thick black eyeliner and black star shape drawn over one eye. His jagged, raven hair hung in spikes around his neck, over a black shirt and leather jacket. As for those tight trousers… And what a cool shiny silver cross around his neck…

‘
Salut
’ he said in a husky French accent and straightened up.

Yikes, he was even taller than Edward.

‘Erm, hi…Or, rather,
bonsoir
Monsieur… I was just going to rescue that plant.’

‘Ah, a superhero,
non
?’ His eyes danced before he turned around to look at the fallen pot.

‘That’s me – Wonder Woman. You should see what I’ve got on under this coat…’

Aargghh! Why did I say that? Lady C would have forty fits. Plus familiarity wasn’t appropriate, considering he was a customer.

He grinned. ‘I’d like to, please. Is that all part of the service? Stripping off?’

Cheeks hotter than ever, I cleared my throat. ‘I hope your meal was satisfactory?’

‘My rare steak was
fantastique
.’

I grimaced.

‘Not a fan of beef?’

‘Chez Dubois’ beef has a fab reputation, of course, but I prefer mine charcoaled, in a bun with a side order of fries.’

He grinned and held out his arm. Studded black bangles clattered around his wrist.

‘Blade,’ he said and firmly enclosed my small hand in his. He wore black leather gloves and for some reason I wanted to feel his skin,

‘I’m Gemma. Love the outfit. Awesome name. It’s not French though, is it?’

‘
Non
.’ His eyeliner crinkled. ‘My band and I strive to achieve global appeal. Our group’s name – Black Bijou – is half English. I sing. Heavy metal. Dagger plays guitar.
Eh
bien
, Stanley is on drums…’

I thought for a moment. ‘You’re all called after types of knife.’

‘
Oui
,’ Blade gave a hearty laugh. ‘We got drunk one night – decided we were so cutting edge our names had to reflect that.’ He shook his head. ‘We were young then – with big egos. Now we realise we are lucky to have some success in France – dominating the world is no longer our life’s aim. Although I wouldn’t say no to a personal limo and an apartment looking onto the Seine…’

‘Just imagine that… Or a private jet to fly you down to St Tropez at weekends…’ I gazed at his pale foundation. ‘Not that you look like a sun-worshipper – you’re more Alice Cooper than a tanned resident of Alice Springs.’

Blade gave another belly laugh. ‘You are funny.

Ooh, I felt all gooey inside. There was something about him that made me want to impress – which was stupid. I wasn’t looking for a bloke and the way I felt at the moment, opera and modern art appreciation aside, no one would ever match up to Edward… I eyed him up and down again. Joe would be impressed, seeing as he loved heavy metal bands.

‘So is that your dream, Gemma, to live a grand life somewhere hot?’

‘Not necessarily hot – just a place where the sky isn’t grey for half the year. Although stuff like that doesn’t matter, if you’re with the right person…’ My eyes tingled and Blade shot me a curious look.