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Oliver shifted nervously. “All the more reason not to go.”
“We’ll be fine. Remi’s got quite the knack for pretending to be something she’s not.”
She looked up from her phone. “If that’s supposed to be a compliment, Fargo, you’ve missed the mark.”
He leaned toward Oliver and in a stage whisper said, “She’s very good at subterfuge. Sneaky operations,” he quickly added.
“Better,” she said, returning her attention to the phone.
“What if something goes wrong?” Oliver asked. “Bad enough my uncle’s in jail for something he didn’t do. I couldn’t bear it if something happened to either of you.”
“We’ll be fine,” Sam assured him. “Just make sure you and Chad are ready with the car. We might have to leave in a hurry.”
Chad walked up a few minutes later. “I finally found a place to park.” He pointed down the tree-lined street. “The patisserie on the corner. It was the closest available.”
“It’ll do,” Sam said.
Remi dropped her phone in her purse, then stood. “I think I have all I need to know.”
If anything, Oliver looked even more worried. “You couldn’t have read through it but once.”
“Good memory,” Sam said. He looked at her. “Ready?”
She leaned over and kissed him. “See you soon.”
* * *
—
REMI SMILED at the security guard before announcing her appointment at the Rossi Export Management Company. The guard looked her over, then buzzed her into the lobby. “Third floor,” he said.
She took the elevator up, walked into the shipping company, her expression somber, her head tilted at just the right angle to imply a certain haughtiness that demanded immediate attention. “Mr. Rossi, please,” she said to the receptionist, a woman in her twenties, her blond hair pulled back in a ponytail.
“And you are . . . ?”
“Rebecca Longstreet. My U.S. attorney should have called to arrange a meeting. Short notice, but I’m only in the country until this evening.”
“Regarding?”
“SRF Import/Export.” Remi strode into the middle of the office, giving the place a thorough perusal. “Who’s in charge?”
“Monsieur Marchand.”
Remi gave her a blank stare.
A look of confusion crossed the young woman’s face. “Did you need to speak to him?”
“If he’s not expecting me,” Remi said, “he should be.”
“Of course. One moment, please.” The woman rose from her seat, knocked on the door behind her, opened it, then disappeared inside. A moment later, she returned, holding the door open for Remi. “Monsieur Marchand can spare you five minutes.”
As Remi walked in, a portly man in his fifties pushed his chair back and stood, his smile wide, as he held out his hand. “Mademoiselle Longstreet. Please. Come in, sit. May I get you a drink?”
“No, thank you.”
He walked around his desk, holding the chair for Remi. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“A slight falling-out with my former logistics company manager. And a need for an immediate replacement.”
