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Pulgas. “Translates to ‘Avenue of the Fleas.’ ”
    A bilingual country—would he need to learn Spanish?
    Bob grinned. “The fleas thrived here, sucking the conquistador’s blood. But anyone can thrive here, René.” Bob flicked the transmission into park. “No matter who you are, where you’re from, or where your daddy went to school. Parlay your concept into money—that’s what talks here. That’s the Valley—never forget.”
    René checked into the motel. The receptionist shook his head. “We have your reservation booked for tomorrow.”
    Again?
    “
Alors
, there’s some mistake. I reserved one room.”
    “Mister Free-ant, right now the honeymoon suite’s all that’s available.”
    Complete with pink Jacuzzi.
    René shrugged and passed over his credit card.
    Ten minutes later, Bob dropped him off at Tradelert. “How about dinner where Steve and Larry eat sometimes?”
    Bob spoke fast and René had trouble keeping up. Half the time he didn’t catch what Bob meant and had to pretend otherwise. Had Bob mentioned these
mecs
before? “Your friends, Steve and Larry?”
    “When anyone mentions Steve and Larry.…”
    René caught himself before he gasped. Swallowed. “You mean Jobs and Ellison.”
    “As in Apple and Oracle, René. You need to pick up Valley lingo.”
    A different language all right.
    Full of excitement at the vista opening up before him, René adjusted his new silk tie, the cuffs on his handmade Charvet shirt, and walked into the former Buick showroom, now Tradelert’s new suite of offices. Bob had told him start-ups scrambled for space, often operating out of warehouses, attics, and garages until funded by venture capitalists; after they hit it big, they bought the building. Like Tradelert had.
    The ceiling loomed over him, lost in popcorn stucco and fluorescent lighting. Everything was so high up. The office directory loomed several feet above his head on the wall. He bit his lip, wondering how he’d find his office and the meeting room. Of course, he was supposed to have been there five minutes ago. What about that special-needs accommodation, or whatever they called it, that he’d read about?
    Feeling self-conscious, he grabbed an orange plastic chair and climbed up to read the office directory sign. But his name wasn’t there. His nerves overtook him. Had he made a mistake, or had they changed their mind and hired someone else? Here he’d left Aimée and flown thousands of miles from his home and life.
    To the left, on a corridor wall, in bright brass shone SECURITY DIVISION MEETING ROOMS 101–106. ROOM 104—RENÉ FRIANT, CHIEF TECHNOLOGY OFFICER . Pride coursed through him. He stepped off the plastic chair and ran down the corridor.
    My new life’s beginning
, René thought. Forget the old, the past. Forget that momentary tug for Aimée, wondering if she was all right.
    Of course she was.

Tuesday Morning, Paris
    T HE MIST CURLING on the Seine furred dawn’s silver glow. Rain pattered on the grilled balcony outside Aimée’s bedroom window. Miles Davis, her bichon frise, nestled on the silk duvet beside her while she monitored security reports on her laptop. Sleep eluded her. Images of the Serb on the windshield, the horrible thump, and that prison tattoo spun through her head.
    Down on the quai a car’s engine whined, a door slammed, and she heard a loud curse. Just the reaction René would have over his damaged car. The repairs would consume a big chunk of their bank account, but she had little choice. Volodya’s refusal to report the robbery and his connection to her mother played in her head. A lie? If not, what was his debt to her? Had he been a snitch or some criminal involved in her past?
    It smelled like ripe, three-day-old cheese.
When it smells
, Aimée’s father always used to say,
sniff it out
.
    Her phone rang. So early—but it was nine hours earlier in California. René calling to let her know he’d landed?
    “Satisfied you’ve made me the