Angels and Thieves

Chapter Five Andre

SECURITY WAS TIGHT at the American Embassy in Paris for the first glittering event of the Christmas season. The embassy was showcasing paintings by up-and-coming young American and French painters.

André and Anne stood in line with others who'd arrived an hour early. "Don't you have special clearance?" André asked.

"No one does after Charlie Hebdo and now . . . the November thirteenth attacks."

"What about me? I'm a friend of the American ambassador."

"Not even you."

Security personnel scanned each person's identification into an international database, scrutinized the invitation and checked their names off an official guest list. Some were drawn aside for further investigation. The violence at Charlie Hebdo in January and the latest coordinated attacks had ensured enhanced protection at international embassies. They'd finally entered the ballroom, where in the past Anne had supervised a myriad of events.

"Nostalgic?" André asked, her eyes flitted from the decorated tables to the paintings, and over the assembled participants.

"A little."

"That'd be normal. You were happy here."

"I've never been a guest at an American embassy party. My position required planning diplomatic events like this one."

"Do you miss working?"

"Sometimes."

"Enjoy this. Maman says we'll be busy. Babies take a lot of time."

"She'll babysit," Anne said.

"You've discussed this?"

"We have."

André nuzzled her neck. "Chanel No. 5?"

"Should I use another?"

"It's my favorite."

"Your mother wears Chanel No. 5."

"Yes."

Anne pulled her hand from his, glancing to the right. "Good evening," she spoke English. The American ambassador was approaching them.

"Anne. Thank you for attending. You look . . . happy."

"You mean pregnant?"

"Lovely. And happily pregnant," the ambassador said. He leaned his head near Anne's, drawing André into the circle. "Is that appropriate?"

"Yes. I'm happily pregnant, but it may not be politically correct to say that to others."

"Me, too," André said.

"Me too?" The ambassador asked. Anne and his friend had equally dumbfounded expressions

"I'm happily pregnant. "I mean, I'm happily pregnant with Anne."

"André," Anne dragged out the syllables. "Everyone knows you're happy, but you aren't pregnant."

The ambassador clasped André's shoulder, "I'm glad you found each other." He touched Anne's hand. "We miss you. Will you speak to Sarah Adams?" The ambassador pointed to a woman hovering near the kitchens. "She's nervous."

"The topiaries of red roses on the tables are stunning. And the natural groupings of lighted trees define the art space."

"Will you tell her? We're pleased with Sarah's work, but she'd like your insight."

"Do you mind?" Anne asked, speaking over her shoulder, already moving.

"I'll find you," André said. He and the ambassador had been friends, sharing an interest in paintings, since the American diplomat arrived in Paris as an appointee of the Obama administration.