The Gilded Seal, page 13
“The Louvre. The Mona Lisa.”
“Pfff.” A disbelieving smile crossed Dumas’s face. “That’s
impossible.”
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“It’s been done before.”
“In 1911,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“Things were a bit different back then. Now . . . He’d never
dare.”
“Welcome to the Enterprise,” the disembodied voice of
Captain Jean- Luc Picard trumpeted from the machine be-
hind them.
“Really?” Tom said, placing the memory stick that Rafael
had left him on the table between them.
“What’s this?”
“A download of the Louvre’s entire security set-up. Blue-
prints. Codes. Guard rotas. Wiring grids. Surveillance sys-
tems.”
“Sensors are picking up a distortion in the space-time
continuum,” the pinball machine announced as the steel ball
struck one of the targets.
“Where did you . . . ?”
“Rafael hid it for me the night he died.”
“Rafael’s dead?” Dumas seemed to be shaken sober by
this news. “How?”
“Milo.”
“You’re sure?”
“He’s had Rafael working on a forged Mona Lisa. I think
he’s planning to swap it for the original. And he’s got Eva,
too.”
“Eva. Your Eva?”
Tom nodded, feeling his jaw tense with silent anger as he
explained what had happened in Rafael’s workshop, although
he left out what she had said about his father and how he’d
died. That was for no one else but him. That was for when he
found her.
“You went back to Spain? Aren’t they looking for you?”
“They are now.” Tom grimaced, Gillez’s betrayal still
rankling. “Getting in was no problem, but I had to look up
some people I know down in Gibraltar to organize an exit.
They’re more used to moving cigarettes and whiskey, but
they made some calls. I landed two hours ago.”
“And came to see me? Why?”
“Milo used to work for you. You know what he’s capable
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of. I need to stop him. I need to get Eva back before he kills
her.”
Dumas emptied one of the coffee cups and lit a fresh ciga-
rette, a hint of life creeping back into his ashen cheeks.
“What’s the plan?”
“We warn the Louvre. Tell them what Milo is planning.
Set a trap. He doesn’t know that I’m on to him. He’ll walk
right into it.”
“Make it so!” the machine chimed.
“And Eva?”
“He’ll have her close. I’ll find her. We just need Milo out
of the picture fi rst.”
Dumas gave a deep sigh and then a firm shake of his head.
“Je suis désolé, Felix. But this has got nothing to do with
me. Not anymore.”
“You’re a government agent, J-P. It’s got everything to do
with you.”
“Ex-government agent. They fired me, remember?”
“They only suspended you. This could help get you back
in.”
“I don’t want to get back in. I just want to be left alone.”
“She’ll die, J-P. She’ll die and Milo will walk away with
the Mona Lisa. And we’re the only ones who can stop him.”
A pause, as Dumas considered this.
“What do you want from me?” he asked eventually.
“An introduction. Philippe Troussard.”
“Troussard?” He grimaced. “Why do you want to see that
imbécile?”
“He’s the Louvre’s new head of security. Got appointed
last year.”
“We were at ENA together,” Dumas conceded.
“I know,” Tom smiled.
“I slept with his girlfriend and came top of the year.” Du-
mas grinned for the first time since Tom had arrived. “I’m
not sure which annoyed him more.”
“That was a long time ago. You could still get us in to see
him.”
“Peut-être. But it would take time. I need to shave fi rst. I
need to get some sleep.”
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“Today,” Tom said firmly, levering him out of his chair by
the elbow. “You’ll get us in today.”
Behind them the man swore and smacked the glass angrily
as the ball disappeared down one of the outlane drains.
“Someday, you’ll learn to play pinball,” the machine
cackled.
C H A P T E R T W E N T Y- O N E
RIAD AL SINAN, MARRAKECH, MOROCCO
20th April— 2:47 p.m.
The air was still and heavy, the washing, strung along the
neighboring rooftops like a brightly colored kite’s tail,
barely twitching in the dusty heat. In the middle of the court-
yard below, scattered rose petals drifted lazily across the
surface of a shallow pond. At its center stood a graceful
white marble fountain, the delicate piano play of water echo-
ing off the terracotta-colored walls.
A late lunch had been prepared in the shadow of a drooping
orange tree, condensation coating a jug of iced lemon water.
Pulling a chair up to the table, Milo pushed the food out of the
way and snorted the tramlines of coke that had been prepared
for him on a silver dish. When he was done, he wet his fi nger
and drew it deliberately over the dish’s mirrored surface, rub-
bing the crumbs across his top gum, pink and fl eshy.
For a moment he was still, his green eyes glittering unblink-
ingly as if in a trance, his tongue flickering across his teeth
like a lizard perched on a rock, sniffing the air. The dappled
sunlight played across his angular face, somber pools forming
under the sharp ridge of his cheekbones and darkening his al-
ready tanned complexion, his curly black hair, slicked back
with some sort of oil, glinting like a beetle’s shell.
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He allowed his mind to roam beyond the city’s rooftops,
across the cobalt sea, to France’s gold-tipped shores. At his
side, his right hand twitched unconsciously, like a gunfi ghter
poised to draw, his long elegant fingers drumming against
the folds of his suit trousers. He was close now. Soon there
would be no going back.
The muffled echo of someone knocking at the front door
broke the spell. Laurent Djoulou was ushered in, his boots
squelching on the diamond- patterned fl oor. Milo rose with a
broad smile, casting a skeletal shadow on the ground. The
two men hugged and then kissed each other on each cheek,
before Djoulou broke away and snapped his right hand into a
salute.
“It’s good to see you again, mon col o nel.”
Tall and solid, his deep- set dark brown eyes blazed behind
sunglasses, a ridge of perspiring muscle bulging at the base
of his bald skull. Three parallel scars marked both of his
fleshy cheeks like freshly turned furrows in a fi eld— tribal
markings from his village. He wore a black T-shirt and jeans
that both looked a size too small for him. Part of his left ear
was missing.
“There’s no need to salute.” Milo dismissed the gesture
with a generous wave of his hand. “Not anymore.”
He spoke in French, his words chosen carefully and deliv-
ered with the precision and force of a sniper’s bullet.
“I prefer the old ways, sir,” Djoulou countered in a rhyth-
mic West African lilt. “It avoids any confusion.”
“Always the soldier.” Milo nodded slowly, and then saluted.
“It’s good to have you back, Capitaine.”
“I’m glad you asked me.”
“Bored with Africa?”
Djoulou puffed out his cheeks.
“Things have changed since you left. Less money. More
charity workers. It’s hard to find an honest fi ght anymore.”
“After this job, you won’t need to,” Milo reassured him
with a smile. “Where are the men?”
“At the port loading up the gear. They’ll meet us there to-
morrow.”
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“I’ve got another piece of cargo I need shipped. Human.”
“Cargo you want lost overboard on the way?” Djoulou
guessed with a smile.
“It’s the forger’s daughter. We picked her up yesterday in
Seville. I want her kept alive.”
“You think she could still be useful?”
“She’s insurance. Kirk was with her.”
Djoulou frowned.
“Where have I heard that name before?”
Milo gave a rueful smile and poured himself a glass of
lemon water.
“From me. He used to work for the CIA. Industrial espio-
nage. When they tried to bury the whole program, Kirk in-
cluded, the French secret service helped him escape in return
for a few favors. Dumas put us together for a few jobs after I
quit the Legion. It didn’t last.”
“Is he going to be a problem?”
“By the time he works out what we’re up to, it’ll be too
late,” Milo said with a dismissive shrug.
“If he was with the girl in Seville, how did he get away?”
“Excellent question, Capitaine.” Milo nodded approvingly.
“And one that you can perhaps help me answer.”
He beckoned for Djoulou to follow him to the fountain at
the center of the courtyard. There, previously hidden by the
orange-glazed plant pots and green shrubbery, were two men
lying gagged and bound against the rim of the shallow pool.
“It seems that Kirk, despite being unarmed and outnum-
bered, managed to overpower and kill one of my men, shoot
Collins here, and then escape.” He pressed his heel into the
bullet wound in Collins’s shoulder, triggering a muffl ed
scream.
“You should have sent me,” Djoulou growled. “I’d have
killed him before all this started.”
“Kirk’s not to be killed,” Milo insisted quickly. “There’s a
debt between us, a life. I intend to honor it.”
“What do you want to do with them?” Djoulou nodded
impassively at the two men staring up at them with fearful,
teary- eyed gazes.
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Milo crouched down, gently stroked each man’s head, then
stood up.
“These two you can lose overboard.”
Stepping forward, he rolled both men into the pond with
the tip of his shoe. They landed facedown with a splash, their
hands still taped behind their back, their ankles strapped. Im-
mediately they kicked out, trying to wrestle their heads above
the surface, the water boiling and crashing over the pond’s
edges like an angry sea striking a rocky cliff. Djoulou and
Milo stepped back so as not to get wet. A minute passed,
maybe more. The struggling slowly subsided, the water cool-
ing and flattening as if a fierce wind had dropped, until the
only sound was the fountain’s gentle chime, rose petals weav-
ing through the men’s drifting hair.
“I prefer the old ways too,” Milo observed pensively.
“When everything had its price. Even failure.”
C H A P T E R T W E N T Y- T W O
TWO HUNDRED MILES EAST OF NEWFOUNDLAND,
CANADA
20th April— 2:47 p.m.
In the end, things had gone surprisingly smoothly. Green
had called back within the hour to confirm that she was
good to go. A car had materialized on the street outside to
take her to the airport. The tickets had been on the back seat.
Business class.
Not that she had been surprised. After all, this trip pre-
sented Green with an elegant solution to the conundrum of
how to keep her out of Lewis’s way without being seen to be
bowing to media pressure. And, as she had suspected, it had
also met with an enthusiastic response from Lord Hudson,
useful in dispelling any of Green’s remaining doubts.
The Fasten Seatbelt sign pinged off. Almost immediately
a man several rows in front leaped from his seat and bounded
up to her. It was Benjamin Cole, or Ben as he’d told her to
call him.
“I thought that was you in the lounge.” He beamed.
“I didn’t know you were going to Paris too.” She smiled,
pleasantly surprised.
“Usual PR bullshit. You know, press the flesh, give a speech,
do some photos, have dinner, fl y home.”
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“Actually I don’t know.” She laughed.
“No, I guess not. It’s a crazy life. Mind if I join you?” He
sat down in the empty seat next to her before she could an-
swer. “So I guess this means the NYPD backed down over
the Chagall?”
“You heard about that?” She was surprised. Cole was
clearly better plugged in than she’d thought.
“Green called, wanting me to negotiate access to the paint-
ings we’re holding in Paris,” he explained.
“You agreed.”
“It makes sense. But last I heard, the NYPD weren’t play-
ing ball.”
“Usual interagency bullshit,” she said with a rueful smile.
“You know, first they cite jurisdiction, then they emphasize
the risk of a vital piece of evidence from an active homicide
investigation going missing . . .”
“Actually, I don’t know.” He laughed.
“Director Green had to okay it with the Commissioner and
the D.A.” She rolled her eyes.
“And Razi?”
“No problem. His Gauguin was crated up and loaded on to
the plane without a whisper.”
“That surprises me.” Cole frowned.
“Why?”
“I’ve met Razi a few times. Looked like the sort of guy
who would want to keep a fairly tight leash on his property.”
“Not this time. According to Lord Hudson, his main con-
cern is to try and secure a sale as soon as possible.”
“Why the hurry?”
“I’m not sure.” Her first thought had been that he must
need the money, although he certainly hadn’t seemed to be
short of cash. She’d already made a note to take a closer look
at his finances when she got back.
“Well that’s his business.” Cole shrugged. “Did you get the
details of the forensic expert?”
“Yes, but they didn’t say which museum he works for.”
“That’s because he works for himself.”
“Oh.” She frowned. “Wouldn’t it be better if we could get
the Louvre or the Musée d’Orsay to authenticate them?”
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“Sure, if you could convince them to do it.” He laughed.
“These days they’re all too scared of getting it wrong and being
sued. Anyway, believe me, Henri Besson is the go- to guy.”
“That’s what Lord Hudson said too.” She nodded, still not
convinced.
“He used to be an art forger himself. Specialized in old mas-
ters. Would still be doing it now if someone hadn’t rolled over
on him. He spent ten years inside and when he came out decided
to switch sides. Just as well. He knows every trick in the book.”
“I’ve got an appointment to see him first thing in the morn-
ing,” Jennifer confirmed. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”
“Good.” He stood up. “I’m going to try and catch some Zs
before we land. We could share a limo into town, if you like?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
“Sweet dreams,” he said with a wink, then made his way
back to his seat.
Reclining her seat, Jennifer closed her eyes, hoping that
she too would be able to get a few hours’ sleep before they
landed. But she found her mind wandering.
There was no question that suggesting this trip had been
the right move from the case’s perspective. And yet, she
couldn’t help wondering if there hadn’t been an underlying,
more self-interested, motivation too. After all, she had pow-
erful memories of her previous visit to Paris during the Dou-
ble Eagle case. Despite the dangers she had faced then, it had
been a happy time for her. And there was no denying that,
when the idea of making this trip had first come to her, a
small part of her had jumped at the opportunity to relive
some of those memories, however fleetingly. Even if, this
time, she would be on her own.
She gave a rueful shake of her head. There was no point in
dwelling on the past. Hers especially. Instead she thought of
the two crates strapped into the hold and the paintings en-
cased within them. She thought of Hudson and Cole pacing
around Falstaff’s stall. She thought of Razi’s purple suit and
Hammon’s bloodied tongue skewered to his chest. She thought
