Two can play at this game. 

She has a contact in Marseilles and you have his number.  At least, his location.  So you call ahead and make use of your flawless French and a back-channel slush fund and arrange for a prime table.  Right next to hers. 

You arrive early and wear solid black, dark suit with a silk shirt open at the collar.  You wear your ring, and look very much like what you told the maitre d' that you were: an impatient businessman who prefers anonymity and whose equally impatient businesswife is still at her board meeting.  You tap your fingers on the polished table and peruse the wine list and let the light glint off the wedding ring you've already quit wearing.  But you want to throw her off, (the ostensible reason) and (the deeper reason you try not to think about too clearly) you want to remind her that you were the one who was faithful, you helped pack her bags and wrap the good china (the pattern you hated anyway) in old newspapers until your fingers were black and your shirt was smudged and the large, gleaming sedan pulled up at the curb.  (Only the best for Brad's new girlfriend.)  Because you want her to know these things without having to tell her.  Because you won't let her lecture you about fidelity.

The heel of her designer shoe slips, just a little, when she spots you; you recognize the miss in the rhythmic click-clock of her heels across the floor.  You allow yourself a small smile, lips curling up lopsided, then hide it behind the wine list as she takes a seat behind your back. 

"Why are you here?" 

She makes no effort to hide the annoyance in her voice.  Or the cleavage in her dress. 

"That's a lovely outfit.  Do you dress that way for all your terrorists, or just the special ones?"

"Funny, Michael.  Are you here for surveillance or just to piss me off?"

"Neither.  I'm here to make a deal."

"Not interested."  She raises one hand, just a flick of her wrist, to signal the waiter.  He returns to the wine list. 

"I've worked out an immunity agreement."

"You didn't hear me the first time?"

"I didn't believe you the first time."

This, at least, shuts her up.  You allow yourself another small smile.  It's nice to be in control.  Not something you're used to where she's concerned.

The two of you sip fine wine back to back and you hear, rather than see, her hand drawing idle circles on the table.  The waiter inquires after your wife and you like to pretend that her shoulders tense when she hears this, so you murmur a little louder than necessary that the board meeting must be running late. 

The waiter inquires after Sydney's companion, and she assures him that he will be along shortly, but you can hear the edge in her voice, a flat, slightly brittle tone that only someone who knows her well might pick up.  You wait until the waiter's gone to drop your little bombshell.

"Maurnet's not coming."

Her back snaps taut against the wooden seat and her diamond bracelet clatters against the tabletop.

"Two of our agents picked him up an hour ago.  You know, he was holding a small object we believe to be a Rambaldi artifact.  Agent Weiss says hi, by the way."

Her voice is low, even, but you know from the way she bites off her words that her jaw is clenched. 

"And are you here to try and apprehend me?"

"I told you, Sydney, I'm here to offer you a deal."

"No deal, Vaughn."  She's up from the table before she finishes the comment, one graceful movement that sweeps the fluttering hem of her skirt around her legs.  You'd almost forgotten the way she does that.  She never looks back at you, heels click-clocking straight to the door, pausing only momentarily to speak with the maitre d', waving one hand in your direction.

She stuck you with the check.