19
TRISTAN
The apartment on the Rue Saint Honoré was four floors and twelve rooms. It was as opulent as one might think a champagne magnate would own. The checkerboard floor in the entrance hall led to a beautiful white marble winding staircase with a brightly colored runner that covered each step—a reminder that red was the signature color of the home. The white walls and furniture were accented by red rugs, pillows and lamps. Sleek and modern, it looked nothing like the ancient Lebleu homestead in Épernay.
I looked to my watch. It was almost noon. I had less than an hour to transmit my messages and still make it to the tuxedo fitting Wood had set up for me in town.
I dropped my bag on the steps, knowing the master suite was on the second floor, and walked about the main area, looking for a place to set up shop. Inside the last door on the left, the walls were dark. I cracked the door for a better look. It was a large two story study, complete with desk and a wall of books so tall a spiral staircase led to the second floor. On the desk sat a computer. “Bingo.”
Sitting down at the antique Empire bureau plat, I noticed the intricate marquetry inlay of florals and arabesques. In the corner was a notepad with my father’s name and the family crest. I ran my hand over the three lions and wondered if I could ever be the kind of man who settled into a life of Champenoise.
Turning on the computer, I only needed to download a photo and attach the message I wanted. A remote website gave me access to encryption software that would clandestinely embed my message into the image. Then, I would post it on a social media site using my false identity. The message could then be retrieved. It was a piece of software obtained after a breach by a North Korean spy. The techs over at the NSA improved upon their code, and now a few deep cover agents were using it to relay messages back to our superiors. It was the easiest way to stay off grid. The only people who knew what my transmissions conveyed were General Michaels and me. Peter and I kept the information we transmitted to ourselves and private. It was a way for the ArcticFox mission and General Michaels to have a check and balance on each of us. My hope now was to meet with Usenko tonight, feed him misinformation and hope that it caused him to question the validity of his source—of his shadow broker.
After the fitting, I walked through the front door with shopping bags filled with black shoes, socks, a new tuxedo shirt, studs and cufflinks in one hand, and a new iPhone in the other. My tuxedo was nearly finished and the beautiful blonde at the shop was more than happy to deliver it to me herself by five o’clock today. As much as I wanted to take her up on the kind offer, I knew what she really wanted, and it wasn’t to deliver my suit. It felt odd to turn down the company of a beautiful woman, but I wasn’t in the mood for a hook-up. The only hook-up I wanted was Henry in my arms once more.
More than once I looked at my phone, wanting to call her. She was the only one who implored me to speak with my father. And now that I had, I needed to thank her. At least that was the excuse I thought about using several times today when I had the urge to call Chateau Lebleu looking for her.
I’d promised my father I’d be back in Épernay. In fact, my plan was to go back and say goodbye tomorrow afternoon. I would spend one last evening with him to straighten out details, then fly home to New Orleans to get back to work. My assumption was that Henry would be there, but I hated to assume.
“Monsieur Lebleu?”
A voice called out from the hallway and I closed the front door behind me, reaching for the gun I’d so carefully concealed in my waistband.
“Oui? Qui est là? Who’s there?”
“Bonjour monsieur. I am Mathis. Your butler.”
I offered my hand to the handsome man. “You’re pretty young for a butler, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes,” he said with a nod. “I was a waiter in a nearby restaurant just last year. Your father was a patron one night. He was impressed with my English and as our conversation developed, he learned I wanted to attend the International Butler Academy in the Netherlands. I was waiting tables and saving my money. Your father, Monsieur Lebleu, paid my way and gave me this job when I graduated. I am forever in his debt.”
I smiled at the story. After getting to know my father better, it seemed that helping people in the most random of ways brought him immense joy. He adored fulfilling dreams. It gave me great pride to know he wasn’t sitting in Épernay counting his billions. He was putting it to good use in the world. It’s exactly what I would do.
“I’m Tristan.”
“Yes, sir. I know who you are, Monsieur Lebleu. Your photographs are in your father’s bedroom upstairs. I hope you don’t mind,” he said. “But I’ve taken the liberty of putting your things away in the master suite.”
“That’s fine, Mathis,” I replied as he took the shopping bags from my hands. Uncontrollably, I let out a loud yawn. It was a late night and an early morning. Between my father and Henry, I’d had very little sleep.
“Why don’t you have a nap, sir?”
“That’s a fine idea, but I must pick up my tuxedo in a couple of hours.”
He shook his head. “Consider it done, sir.”
“You drive a hard bargain, Mathis.”
“Yes sir,” he said with a smile. I could tell he had no idea what I meant, but a second yawn came on the heels of the first, and I needed sleep if I was going to be on my toes tonight at the Sanctuary.
My personal phone rang in the pocket of my leather jacket. I slipped it into my hand and saw the name—Wood.
“I’m in Paris and my tux is being delivered to my apartment later this afternoon, so thank you—by the way—for setting that up.”
“Jesus. You’re in a good mood.”
“I am?”
“Yes. What’s happened to you in the last couple of days? You get knocked in the head by a Care Bear or something?”
“What in the hell does that even mean?”
“It means that for someone who’s always cranky as shit, you’re acting like you want to throw rainbows and sunshine around.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Really?” Wood replied. “When was the last time you thanked me for anything?”
“By the tone of your voice I’m guessing never.”
“You have guessed correctly.”
“I apologize, Wood,” I said, splaying my hand across my chest as I climbed to the second floor.
“You met somebody, didn’t you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Look I’ve known you for two years, and in those two years, you’ve been one of the surliest, most obtuse people I’ve ever come in contact with. Sure, it made you really cool, but most of the time you just came off like an ass.”
“I’m assuming you’re telling me this as a friend and not as the owner of a very expensive and exclusive club that I pay a ton of money to be a part of.”
“Of course, Wood Tinsley, owner-operator of the Sanctuary would never speak to a client this way.”
“Very funny. So what do you know? Friend?”
“You mean other than the fact that you’ve met a woman who’s obviously flipped your world upside down, turning you into a nice guy?”
“I am in a good mood, Wood. Don’t fuck it up.”
“Naz called. Your friend confirmed for tonight. What do you have going on with this guy anyway?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing is ever nothing.”
“Wood,” I said changing my voice to all business. “Part of the reason I like your club is because no one knows who or what I’m doing. Got it?”
He sighed. “Yes sir, Mr. Bleu.”
“Hey,” I said, throwing myself on top of the bed. “That’s Mr. Lebleu to you.”