J'adore Paris (4 page)

“They do, but a little refresher never hurts, now does it?”
Sandrine waves to us, then closes the office door, leaving us speechless in front of Frédéric’s massive desk.

I feel like a baby kitten that’s been left beside a coyote. I try to maintain my composure, but my sweaty palms threaten to give me away. I’m grateful to have Rikash by my side.

Frédéric takes a deep breath before launching into a professorial soliloquy. “As you probably know, the retail industry loses approximately thirty billion dollars worldwide every year from the sale of counterfeit merchandise. Clothing and fashion accessories account for at least seventy percent of all counterfeit goods. The numbers are simply astounding.”

I see from the corner of my eye that Rikash is nodding like a good student, taking in the teacher’s every word. I try to do the same as Frédéric continues.

“The good news is that French laws are in our favour: purchasing fake goods is considered illegal here and, unlike in North America, buyers can be subject to stiff criminal penalties: three hundred thousand euros or three years in jail.”

I’m familiar with international counterfeiting laws, but this is clearly new to Rikash. He twists in his chair, silently mouthing “Oh my god” in my direction. I’m sure he’s thinking about the fake Gucci belt he bought on one of our last brunch dates in lower Manhattan. It could have landed him in jail here.

“However, the problem isn’t so much with the buyers—the public is slowly becoming more educated in this area—but with the players distributing the goods. It’s become the preferred source of funding for organized criminals who also deal
in narcotics, weapons, child prostitution, and human trafficking, and even have connections with terrorism. Some say these organizations use their distribution channels to move fake goods, and it’s becoming extremely difficult to track them down.”

Although our work here is sure to be exciting, something tells me there might be speed bumps ahead. It’s one thing to handle white-collar criminals in the lofty world of mergers and acquisitions, but battling organized criminals? I hadn’t really considered that.

“Why is it so difficult to track them down?” Rikash manages to squeeze in a question.

“They’re attracted to piracy because they can remain anonymous. Counterfeiting rings usually operate as cash businesses. They lease manufacturing equipment from third parties and generally don’t maintain reliable paperwork. Counterfeiters can move merchandise, hide assets, destroy evidence, or disappear without leaving a paper trail. And any profits made in this type of market are difficult to trace.”

“So how do you manage to eventually find them?” I ask, intrigued.

“We do it through surveillance. We have over fifty private investigators on the ground, working with informants. Once we have reliable information, we let law enforcement know and we attempt to seize the goods. Your predecessor, Pierre, was good at managing all this. And this is where your first assignment comes in.” He finally looks me straight in the eye.

“You want us to get some leads?” I ask.

“Non, non, non.”
He shakes his head, removing his glasses.

Despite his curtness, I try again. I don’t give up easily. “Perhaps you’d like us to contact some of your private investigators to discuss upcoming seizures?”

He shakes his head again, but this time with a condescending smirk. “No, but keep going, Mademoiselle Lambert. You’re getting close.”

His attitude is starting to get me hot under the collar, but I keep my cool and continue to play his game. “Set up a meeting with local law enforcement?”

“Almost there: you’re burning!” I sense he’s taking pleasure in this game of cat and mouse.

Rikash jumps in. “Perhaps if she’s burning, that means she’s gotten pretty close to hell.” He nonchalantly crosses his legs, with the satisfied look of a fighter who’s just given a knockout punch.

Frédéric smiles broadly, happy to have met a willing adversary. “Bravo, Rikash! You’ve figured out what your mission will be.”

“Really?” Despite his bluster, Rikash now looks totally confused.

“You’re both going on a raid tomorrow morning to observe some seizures and arrests. You’ll be accompanied by three gendarmes and a private detective. So, yes, I guess you can call it getting pretty close to hell.”

I nearly fall off my chair. I knew that my responsibilities here would involve dealing with law enforcement agencies, but I wasn’t expecting to be sent on a raid my first week on the
job. This is a far cry from my visions of sitting in the front row at couture shows, next to the editor-in-chief of
Elle
magazine.

I peer over at Rikash, who’s as white as a sheet.

Like the winner of a boxing match after the referee has counted to ten, Frédéric rises to his feet triumphantly. “Here’s the seizure warrant. The police officers will meet you here tomorrow at seven sharp. You might receive some threats along the way, but don’t worry about it—it’s pretty routine.”

“Threats?” I croak, dumbfounded.

“Unhappy vendors can get a bit violent. One of your predecessors had his knuckles broken with a lead pipe.”

Rikash now looks as though he might faint. “But you don’t understand. I don’t like pain. I cry when I get a facial.”

My head spins. How could Sandrine not have mentioned this at lunch today? Did she purposely avoid telling us?

“I’m sorry, it’s just that Sandrine didn’t mention we’d be going on raids so soon. I’m afraid we’ve been caught off guard.”

“Sandrine isn’t the one making this decision; I am. There’s no better way to learn the ropes,” Frédéric says curtly. Then he smiles. “By the way, Catherine, you should forget about wearing high heels tomorrow. I think jeans and sneakers will be more appropriate. Just in case you need to run for your life.”

C
hampagne makes you feel like it’s Sunday and better days are just around the corner
. Marlene Dietrich’s famous words come to mind as I wait for Antoine at the Hôtel de l’Abbaye, a charming and romantic
hôtel particulier
, a townhouse of a grand sort, in the heart of Saint-Germain. We had agreed to meet here after work to celebrate my first day at Dior. What I wasn’t expecting, however, was to be ordering a bottle of Champagne to calm my jittery nerves. After a few sips of pink Taittinger, I start to relax and admire this dainty, delectable space. The tiny bar at the back of the lobby adjoins a lovely courtyard. I take a deep breath and remind myself of why I moved back to Paris: first and foremost, to be with the man I love; second, to pursue a career in a field I’m passionate about. So what if my first day wasn’t exactly what I expected?

“Hello,
ma chérie
,” Antoine arrives and moves in for a kiss. I stand to greet him but can barely muster a smile.

“Why the long face? What happened on your first day?”

“We got an unexpected assignment.”

“Oh?” He takes off his suit jacket and places it on the back of the antique settee.

“Rikash and I are going out with the local police tomorrow. Let’s just say that’s not what I imagined for my first week.”

“What do you mean?” He takes a seat next to me as the waiter pours him a glass of bubbly.

“We’re going on a raid to bust counterfeiters and confiscate their merchandise.”

“Really? That sounds amazing! I wish I could be a fly on the wall to see you guys in action.”

“I don’t know about that. It seems a bit scary. Apparently, a former colleague got his knuckles broken doing this.”

“Are you serious?” His expression changes from jovial to concerned. “Who told you that?”

“Frédéric, one of the top dogs in our legal department.”

“Was it—the broken knuckles—a one-off? Or does it happen all the time?”

“I have no idea. He didn’t say.”

“I knew most luxury houses were active in doing raids. I just didn’t realize the risks for the people actually carrying them out.” He takes a sip of Champagne, then stares into his flute. “I’m sure you have nothing to worry about if the police are accompanying you, Catou.” He rubs my shoulders and kisses my cheek. His tender gesture lifts my spirits. “You need to trust Sandrine and Frédéric.”

“You’re probably right. Anyway, I can hardly wait to see
Rikash riding around town with the police. It should be a day to remember.”

We order some smoked salmon appetizers and enjoy our aperitifs.

“So, how was your day?” I ask.

“Same old, same old; just billing my life away while thinking about you.” He takes my hand in his and kisses it gently. “But let’s not talk about work. Save your energy for your big raid,
mon amour
.” He feeds me a bite-size canapé and whispers in my ear. “And I have a good idea about how to help you relax before your big day.” He kisses me on the nape of the neck, and my worries about what awaits me tomorrow magically disappear.

“Y
ou know I’m only doing this for you, love,” Rikash declares between bites of almond croissant as we wait for the gendarmes to arrive at the office. “Spending the day dressed down in a filthy police truck isn’t exactly what I had in mind when I accepted this position.”

“Yes, I know, and I really appreciate it. I’m sure this is a test to see what we’re capable of. After today, we’ll be back to pushing paper.”

Sandrine explained during lunch yesterday that we’d be responsible for maintaining an evidentiary chain of custody for all Dior trademarks. Clearly, there will be lots of paperwork involved.

“Dior is renowned for its New Look, but this is a bit much, don’t you think?” He points to his ripped jeans, fleece sweater, black motorcycle jacket, and dirty Diesel sneakers.

“I think you look sexy. Maybe you’ll charm one of the gendarmes,” I say, trying to pierce his sombre mood.

He immediately perks up. “Ooh, you’re right. Men in uniform!”

I’m wearing a pair of khaki combat trousers, a grey sweatshirt, hot pink Marc Jacobs sneakers, and my red glitter Miu Miu sunglasses. Nothing too conspicuous, I tell myself.

Frédéric shows up in our office a few minutes later with three middle-aged men in full police dress. All are of medium height and on the burly side. Rikash’s face falls as he catches a glimpse of the men we’ll be spending the day with, and he gives me a thumbs-down.

“Catherine, Rikash, please meet Sergeants Larivière, Ruppert, and Mazarin.”

“
Bonjour
. Very nice to meet you. We’re looking forward to our first raid.” My voice is brimming with faux enthusiasm.

“The pleasure is ours, mademoiselle,” Larivière replies. He gives Rikash a friendly nod but keeps a comfortable distance. “Frédéric told us about your time in New York. I’m sure you’ll be prepared for some of the characters you will encounter today.”

“Yes, it was quite a jungle.” A smile crosses my face. I’m not referring to the crowds on the streets of Manhattan but rather to the atmosphere at my former office: it was about the survival of the misfits.

“Sergeant, can you give us an idea of the role you expect us to play today?” I ask.

“
Absolument
. We will need your assistance in identifying
the fake goods to make sure they’re in fact replicas of Dior merchandise. Once they’ve been duly identified, we can seize them. The vendors may try to flee, so we must act quickly. Afterward, we will rely on both of you to inventory everything and make itemized lists.”

“What do you do with the seized merchandise?” Rikash asks.

“We have it destroyed in a secure facility,” Frédéric answers.

Given the huge amounts of money involved in producing, distributing, and camouflaging the copies, I’m taken aback to learn this.

“We need to wait for Chris, our private investigator, before we can set out,” Sergeant Larivière says, staring at his watch. “He’s apparently received top-notch tips about where some of the vendors will be today.”

Rikash sighs, staring at his iPhone. He’s obviously looking for a distraction before we go off on our very unglamorous mission. To make matters worse, Laetitia and the PR team are massed in the hallway outside our office, discussing guest lists, runway set-up, and Champagne for the Shanghai show. I stare down at my casual outfit and feel completely out of place. I remind myself that it’s only a test to see what I’m capable of, and that things will get more glamorous soon.

Just then, a dark and handsome man appears in the office doorway. He is tan and fit and looks straight out of a Calvin Klein ad. He’s wearing a Burberry trench coat and dark jeans, with bright red Converse sneakers.

Rikash looks up and nearly drops his phone.

“Hi, everybody. Sorry I’m late. There was some major traffic on the way from the airport.” His accent is American.

After he shakes Frédéric’s hand and greets the three gendarmes, he walks toward Rikash and me. “I’m Chris. You must be the new team members. Welcome aboard.” He flashes a Colgate smile.

“Hellooooo, so nice to meet you.” Rikash darts forward to shake Chris’s hand. “You can’t imagine how thrilled we are to be going out on a raid.”

It’s amazing how the presence of an attractive male will rev up Rikash’s enthusiasm. I shake my head.

“Fantastic. I heard you guys worked in New York for Edwards & White,” Chris adds cheerfully. “I did some work for them a few years ago. Great firm, isn’t it?”

“Oh yes, we absolutely loved it!” Rikash is now shamelessly lying to this handsome stranger. I discreetly pinch his left arm to signal that he should stop.

I move forward to shake the investigator’s hand. “Catherine Lambert, and this is my overzealous assistant, Rikash. But you can call him HRH. It’s short for
His Rikash Highness
.”

Rikash is silent for a moment before bursting into laughter. To my surprise, everyone in the office follows suit, including Frédéric. Pleased that I’ve managed to break the ice, it occurs to me that we might be in for a highly entertaining day after all.

“How did you get into this business?” I ask Chris once we’ve settled into the undercover police truck. The back-seat windows are blacked out, so there’s nowhere to look but at each other.

“I started working in L.A., my hometown, as a general investigator but got a break when a big sporting goods manufacturer asked me to go after some counterfeiters. Now I have hundreds of clients in the retail industry.”

“How fascinating.” Rikash gives him sweet eyes.

“It is, actually. I have forty agents working for me in cities all over the world, but I still like to get my hands dirty, especially for my most important clients.”

“That’s impressive,” I say enthusiastically. “We’re thrilled to be learning the ropes with someone as knowledgeable as you.”

“It’s great to see you interested in playing such an active role. Your predecessor, Mr. Le Furet, didn’t go on raids much. He preferred to remain behind the scenes.”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Larivière says, “but we need to tell the driver where we’re going.”

“Yes, of course. Porte de Saint-Ouen,” Chris says. “A large shipment of fake goods was due to arrive there early this morning.”

“Where do you get your tips?” I ask, intrigued.

“Some come from the clients, others from law enforcement officers who’ve seen something shady. But most tips actually come anonymously from other counterfeiters competing for territory. It’s like the drug trade: mercenary.”

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to relax before
we get to our destination. I know we’re heading to an unsafe part of town and need to calm my nerves. I see Rikash checking out his hair in the driver’s rear-view mirror. My phone vibrates and, startled, I jump from my seat. I peer down and see a text message from Antoine wishing me good luck. This soothes and energizes me: I’m ready for action.

Chris is now leaning forward, looking keenly ahead through the windshield. “Okay, I see them,” he announces. “Let us out a few blocks from here.”

I crane my neck to look out the driver’s window as we pass the vendors, a half-dozen men and women in puffy black coats standing behind a large table loaded with bags, scarves, perfumes, and belts. The driver casually eases the truck to a stop a few moments later.

“Okay, are you ready?” Larivière asks. “Here’s the plan. Catherine, you and Rikash will get out on the right side of the truck, cross the street so that it looks like you’re coming from the metro, and then head back to the table to verify the merchandise. I trust that you’re well versed in Dior’s product lines. We’ll wait for you to report back. Whatever you do, don’t be nervous; the vendors will sense it straight away and know something’s up.”

“Okay, no problem.” My heart is pounding in my chest as if I’m about to apprehend a serial killer.

We hop out of the truck and follow Larivière’s instructions. Rikash pretends to chat on his phone (with Chris, of course, as if arranging a date for tonight). It’s hilarious and helps me relax. As we approach the vendors, I’m feeling a little more at
ease. Surprisingly, a major adrenaline rush washes over me, and I approach the table with confidence.

“Bonjour.”
I look the first vendor straight in the eye. He’s wearing baggy jeans, a black windbreaker, and a black and white bandana covered in double CCs on his head, an obviously fake Chanel scarf. Instead of greeting us, he takes a puff from his cigarette and blows the smoke right into our faces. Horrified, Rikash takes a step back and waves the smoke away.

I look down at the merchandise on offer: Miss Dior Chérie perfume in plastic bottles, shoddy-looking versions of Dior saddle bags, and a few acrylic scarves with “Dior” poorly printed in large bold characters. I’ve just picked up one of the bottles when a young woman in tight jeans and a black leather jacket scurries toward us from across the street while letting out a bird-like whistle. The man in front of us reaches under the table, then proceeds to slide most of the merchandise off the table and into extra-large garbage bags. Some items fall to the ground. He lunges forward and wrestles the perfume bottle out of my hands. Rikash manages to grab a few discarded items from the street. We’ve identified the goods but we’ve lost the vendors: they’ve all run away. Without saying a word, we dash toward the truck.

“We have some of the goods,” Rikash announces to the team, out of breath. “But the vendors disappeared. How did they know? Did we do something wrong?”

“No, they have spotters on street corners with two-way radios. They probably recognized the truck. You did a great job, guys,” Chris declares, staring at his phone. “I’ve just received
another tip about more vendors nearby, from the same group. Now that we know they have our stuff, it’ll go faster next time.”

Although I’m disappointed that we didn’t really complete our first raid, I’m relieved that it’s over. I give Rikash a high-five.

We arrive at our next location, a few blocks away, and I’m ready for action. Without waiting for instructions this time, I jump out of the truck, with Rikash close behind. We cross the street and nonchalantly walk to the corner, where some vendors are scattered, littering the street with their fake goods.

A young man in a leather jacket addresses us. “Bags, you want bags? Louis Vuitton, Chanel, Dior?”

Rikash winks at me; we’re in business. He confirms that they’re in possession of counterfeit Dior goods by rifling through the stacks of bags, picking up a copy of a Lady Dior bag, and holding it in mid-air for everyone to see.

I sneak a hand behind my back and make the okay signal with my fingers. Within seconds, Chris and the three gendarmes have run to our side. I pull out the seizure warrant, and some of the men standing nearby flee the scene.

The man in the leather jacket is now fuming. After swearing at us for five minutes, he hands over a black garbage bag overflowing with scarves, purses, and belts. A young woman in a sweatshirt is standing beside him, biting her nails nervously.

“It looks like the tip was good,” Rikash confirms.

“Where did you get this?” Chris demands, holding up the fake merchandise.

The young man remains silent.

“Do you understand my question? Where did this come from?” Chris points to the bag.

“I don’t know,” the vendor finally says, staring at the sidewalk. The woman says nothing.

Chris shakes his head.

“I’m not buying it, but it doesn’t look like we’ll get any more information out of these two,” Larivière says gruffly.

“The next time we catch you with this stuff, you’re going into the truck, got it?” Chris points to our vehicle.

The vendor responds by spitting on the ground.

As we prepare to leave the scene with three large bags, the vendor impatiently gestures to the woman next to him. She fumbles through her purse and pulls out an expensive-looking camera, which she points at Rikash and me. We try to look away, but she’s shooting like the paparazzi.

Chris taps me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. It’s pretty routine. They like to share pictures of anti-counterfeiting agents among their group so they won’t be caught off guard next time. Essentially, this means you did a great job. Congratulations.”

There’s a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I imagine my picture being broadcast over the Internet and getting into the hands of every counterfeiter in this city. Why not take out a full-page ad in
Paris Match
to get a head start?

Rikash puts his arm in mine as we walk back to the truck. “I know I possess model-like cheekbones, but I prefer to get my picture taken by a professional.”

“No kidding. I didn’t like that one bit. Who knows where those pictures will end up?”

“It’s okay, dah-ling, we’ll be fine. We simply can’t drive through this part of town anymore without starting a riot.” He pats me on the back before letting out a startled cry. “Oh no! I just stepped in dog poo!”

I can’t help but laugh as he pulls his sneaker up to look. “I’m afraid that in Paris, it’s as iconic as the Eiffel Tower.”

He looks shocked. “No, really? You mean a nation of such sophistication doesn’t pick up? That’s gross!”

“At least you stepped into it with your left foot. In France, that means good luck.”

He stares at me incredulously. “Are you kidding me?”

“No, I’m not. But I guess any way you look at it,
mon ami
, we’re now in the
merde
.”