William and I made small talk. He’d asked what I’d been up to since getting out of prison, and I’d flat out lied. Told him I’d tried some odd jobs, but nothing had stuck. If he were on to me, then there was nothing I could do. I’d deal with it if I had to, but I feel pretty secure he wouldn’t introduce me to someone above his pay grade if he thought I was undercover.
We left after he gave me a business card for a Julian Mercier with instructions to be at the address listed at nine AM.
So, here I am.
The restaurant—Margeaux—has a menu posted in a glass case beside the door, which indicates it’s only open for dinner. When I try the handle, I find it unlocked.
Inside, I take note of the marble flooring, expensive chandeliers, and heavy leather chairs around mahogany dining tables. It’s not necessary to translate the euro prices to know only the wealthy eat here.
A burly man in a dark suit hurries through the seating area. His smile is polite, but his tone is anything but. “We’re closed.”
“Door was open,” I point out, not sure why I feel the need to be a smart ass. I’m not a small man, standing nearly as tall as this dude, but he’s twice as wide as I am. Not to mention, his fists look pretty meaty.
I’m shocked when he chuckles. “So it was. What can I do to help you?”
Hands clasped in front of me, I flash a grin. I’m rocking a light gray suit with a pale pink tie and pocket kerchief. I make sure my Vacheron Constantin watch and Cartier cuff links are on display. Those were not purchased by the insurance consortium. Rather, they are plunder from my early days of robbing jewelry stores, long before I ever went into the Marine Corps. “I have an appointment with Mr. Mercier at nine.”
“Mr. Bellinger,” the man replies with a nod, affirming he’d expected me this morning. “I’m Cesar. If you’ll follow me, please.”
He leads me through the restaurant, the kitchen, and then down a hallway.
“Where are you from, Cesar?” I ask. His accent is not French, so I’m guessing he’s from Spain.
“Portugal,” he replies, but he offers no more. Instead, he pauses when we arrive at a door. Before opening it, he gives it three sharp raps.
When he motions for me to go before him, I find myself inside an ordinary office, which seems out of place with the grandeur of the restaurant. Wooden desk, two nondescript chairs, and substandard art on the walls.
I take everything in quickly, the ingrained training to check out my surroundings before the people kicking in.
I’m surprised to see William there, since I was under the impression he wouldn’t be. No matter, though.
William barely waits for Cesar to pull the door shut to give us privacy before he introduces me to the other man.
Julian Mercier has to be in his sixties at least, but he wears it well. He’s bald, although the pattern of stubble suggests it’s not from hair loss. But he wears his baldness like a crown. A toughened exterior with an air of cultured royalty. He sports a pearl-colored tailored silk suit with a burgundy-and-brown paisley tie. Not a combo I’d choose, but it works in Paris.
“Mr. Bellinger,” he says, his Parisienne accent elegant. Last night in my hotel room, I’d Googled him, discovering Mr. Mercier was born and raised in Paris. While well-traveled, he has never lived elsewhere. He’s a renowned businessman who owns several high-end restaurants, retail stores, and even a massive hotel. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise,” I say as we shake hands.
“You come highly recommended by William.” With a gracious smile, he motions to a chair. I unbutton my suit jacket as I sit, crossing one leg over the other. He moves behind the desk, takes his seat, and steeples his hands before his face. William remains standing. “But you’ve been out of the game a long time.”
“True,” I answer with a careless shrug. “But the rust will fade once I get off the bench.”
Julian doesn’t crack a smile, but he does appraise me. “William says you have access to some of the best technology.”
“Also true,” I reply, keeping it vague.
Playing it cool. I don’t need you, but you need me.
“Why did you quit?” he asks. He keeps his questions elusive, too, but it’s obvious he means my life as a thief.
“Got pinched.” My answer is frank. “Didn’t have the goods on me, but they got me on obstruction charges. Enough to put me away for a couple years.”
Julian nods, but it’s obvious he already knew.
“Why not go straight?” he inquires. Casually, he crosses his arms on the desk.
“My mom died while I was in prison,” I say, still marveling at the pinch of pain I get when I allow myself to remember. “After I was released, I tried to go legit, but I realized… I can’t let go. I’m too good at what I do, and the rewards are better than the risks any day.”