The Gilded Seal, page 27
need you to get a message to Commissaire Ferrat. Tell him I
think I’ve spotted one of the men you’re looking for.”
C H A P T E R F I F T Y- F I V E
CENTRAL POLICE STATION, 1ST ARRONDISSEMENT, PARIS
23rd April— 10:31 a.m.
Looking around, it struck Jennifer that, no matter the coun-
try or culture, all holding cells looked pretty much the
same. A narrow room—window optional. A steel door com-
plete with viewing/feeding slot. A bed with a thin, fl ame-
proof mattress. The unrelenting glare of an overhead light
that was never turned off. Even the choice of colors had con-
solidated around different shades of blue or green, generally
held to have a pacifying effect on the cell’s potentially un-
stable or violent inmates.
Not that she was of a mind to cause trouble, despite Ferrat’s
heavy-handed treatment. Not yet, at least. As soon as the Em-
bassy representative turned up and word got back to the FBI,
he’d have to back off and go through the proper channels. She
had nothing to hide and had done nothing wrong. He was the
one who would have to learn to play by the rules.
She’d spent her time in the cell thinking about Tom and
the events of the last forty-eight hours. The more she’d
learned about what had really unfolded at the Louvre and in
that tunnel, the more she’d been struck by the uneasy
sensation that Tom had probably been telling the truth about
what had driven him to steal the Mona Lisa. It didn’t excuse
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t w i n i n g
what he had done, of course, or the way he had used her to
get to the painting, but it did at least explain why he had done
it and who had really been responsible for the killings. Given
all that, she couldn’t help but feel guilty at having rolled over
on him quite so quickly. The fact that he’d known she
would—had counted on it, in fact—only made it worse.
Her head flicked to the door as the viewing slot snapped
open and momentarily framed a set of brown eyes and the
bridge of a nose. It slammed shut as the tinkle of keys and
creak of the lock announced that someone was there to see
her. Finally.
Her relief was short-lived. Far from despatching the cav-
alry, the Embassy seemed to have sent a boy scout. The
ginger-haired man standing nervously in front of her, thin
face covered in acne scars and razor burn, looked as if he was
barely out of college. He jumped as the door clanged behind
him, glancing fearfully at the lock as it crunched shut, then at
the single naked bulb overhead. She guessed this was proba-
bly his first time inside a cell. Great.
“Er . . . Agent Browne?” he stuttered, fidgeting with the
strap of his briefcase. “Bill Kendrick. I’m from the Em-
bassy.”
“You certainly took your time.”
“We’re . . . er . . . a little short-staffed at the moment.” She
took this as an explanation for both his tardiness and his ob-
vious inexperience.
“You’ve come to get me out?”
“It’s not that easy.” He gave her a weak smile.
“All it takes is a phone call. It doesn’t get much easier than
that.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Not to me.” She gave an exasperated shake of her head.
“The theft is all over the press. You can’t switch on the TV
or pick up a paper without reading about it,” he sounded al-
most excited. “Today’s American Voice is going to claim that
you and Kirk were lovers. There are photos apparently.”
“Lewis has a personal grudge against me. The photos
prove nothing. I already explained all this to Ferrat, but he
doesn’t want to listen. He just wants to be able to show his
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
2 4 7
bosses that he’s making progress. Well, he’s wasting his time.
There are protocols in place, for God’s sake. And none of
them involve serving FBI agents being arrested and held on a
hunch.”
Kendrick gave an awkward cough before answering.
“The State Department is coming under pressure from the
French government to cooperate with their investigation.
Wire taps, stop- and- search powers, satellite imagery. Need-
less to say, this also extends to the questioning, and if neces-
sary detainment, of U.S. nationals.”
“Have you even spoken to the FBI?” Jennifer was growing
tired of Kendrick’s evasive manner. “Ask for Director Green.
He can vouch for me.”
“Unfortunately I have not been able to reach FBI Director
Green.”
He gave an apologetic shrug, his eyes flicking to the ground
as if steeling himself to say something. Jennifer suddenly
had the sickening realization that Kendrick hadn’t been sent
to secure her release at all. He’d been sent to give her a mes-
sage. Green, ever the politician, was distancing himself,
scenting a scandal.
“I spoke with Deputy Director Travis instead. According
to him, not only have you been on vacation since the eve ning
of April twenty-first, but your approach to the Louvre wasn’t
sanctioned by the FBI.”
“I had orders to talk to Director Green and Director Green
only,” she protested, the cell beginning to spin around her.
“He wasn’t available, so I left a message. What did they ex-
pect me to do—stand by and do nothing?”
“From the FBI’s perspective, therefore,” Kendrick contin-
ued as if he hadn’t heard her, “you have been in Paris as a
private citizen since the eve ning of April twenty-fi rst. Your
intervention with the Louvre was, as a consequence, a per-
sonal matter of which they had no prior knowledge or
involvement.”
“They’re cutting me loose?” Jennifer’s voice was disbe-
lieving.
“The Embassy will of course provide you with all the help
and assistance we would give any U.S. national implicated in
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a police investigation,” he intoned. From the obvious comfort
he took in legalistic phrasing, Jennifer guessed that he was a
law school grad. “However, given the high-profile and politi-
cally sensitive nature of the case, it would not be appropriate
for us or the French authorities to extend any preferential
treatment to you. I suggest you continue to cooperate fully
with the investigation. Hopefully this will all be resolved
soon.”
“Hopefully?” Jennifer nailed him with a withering look.
“They sent you all the way here to tell me to click my heels
and think of home?” She gave a despairing shake of her
head. “Anything else I should know?”
Kendrick paused, and then let his mask momentarily slip.
“Look, I probably shouldn’t say this, but the French want
to see some heads rolling and, from the case Ferrat is build-
ing, it looks like you’re going to be first on the scaffold. So if
I were you, I’d get a good attorney. You’re going to need
one.”
C H A P T E R F I F T Y- S I X
VOIE GEORGES POMPIDOU, PARIS
23rd April— 11:59 a.m.
He’s here!” Dumas pointed at the Range Rover turning
on to the ramp that led down to the Quai, the sound of
its tires on the cobblestones echoing across the water.
“Who’s with him?” Tom didn’t want to get too close until
he knew what he was dealing with.
“One car on the bridge. Another one parked on the road
above,” Archie radioed back from his vantage point on the
Allée des Cygnes, a finger-shaped island in the middle of the
river opposite Tom. “Two men in each.”
“That sounds about right.” Tom gave a rueful smile. Milo
had never been shy of loading the dice in his favor. One time
in Macau, quite literally. “Okay, I’m going in.”
Tom edged the throttle forward and pointed the speedboat
toward a gap between two house boats where the car had
stopped, the powerful engine spluttering its disdain at the low
revs. He neared the bank and slipped back into neutral, the
Seine rolling gently underneath him as he waited. The front
passenger door opened and Milo got out.
“New toy?” he called.
“Just borrowing it.”
He’d come by boat because it afforded him the option of a
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t w i n i n g
quick escape if Milo tried anything. He noticed now, how-
ever, that Milo was being careful to stay close to the open
door in case he needed to dive back inside. Not for the fi rst
time, it occurred to Tom that sometimes the similarities be-
tween them were more striking than the differences. What
was it that had led them both to choose such divergent paths,
despite their similar beginnings in the business? Upbring-
ing? Circumstance? An intuitive sense of right and wrong,
of where to draw the line? It was impossible to say, but it did
make Tom wonder how close he had come to following a dif-
ferent, and in his view, darker path.
“Where is she?”
The rear passenger door swung open and Eva half climbed,
half-fell to the ground. Milo hauled her roughly to her feet
and then grabbed the hair at the back of her head to hold her
still. She was wearing the same clothes she’d had on the other
day, only these were now ripped and dirty and she had her left
arm in a sling. One of his men climbed out of the other door
and made his way to Milo’s side.
“What have you done to her?” Tom called, his expression
and voice caught between his instinctive anger at Milo’s in-
discriminate brutality and concern for Eva, who appeared
lost and in pain. Certainly, looking at her now, her shoulders
cowed in defeat, lips trembling like autumn leaves in the
wind, it was hard to believe that this was the same fi ercely
proud woman he’d last seen in Seville. His cheek burned
with the sudden memory of how she’d slapped him only a
few days ago. Now Tom suspected that if she were to raise
her arm, it might snap like a branch that had been bent back
on itself.
“It was an accident.” Milo shrugged. “She’ll live.”
Tom nodded slowly, his eyes brimming with black fury.
There was little he could do now other than get Eva back and
hold her close and promise never to let Milo get to her again.
But he made a silent pledge that one day, he would make
Milo pay.
“Is that the painting?”
Tom held out the protective metal case containing Rafael’s
copy of the Mona Lisa and nodded.
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
2 5 1
“Send Eva over.”
“Show me it first,” Milo insisted. “I need to see more than
just a box.”
Tom nodded and nudged the boat forward until its prow
was bobbing just a few feet from the bank.
“I’ll hold her here,” he said to Dumas in a low voice, the
engine idling. “Just bring Eva back in one piece.”
With a nod, Dumas grabbed the case and clambered un-
steadily over the padded sun beds that lined the stern, before
jumping down on to the bank.
“Wait,” Milo called. The man next to him stepped forward
and searched Dumas thoroughly before letting him pass.
“That’s far enough,” Tom called. “Show him.”
Dumas flicked the catches on the case and held it up
against his chest as he opened it. A smile teased the corners
of Milo’s mouth.
“It looks like we have a deal.”
Dumas snapped the case shut and placed it on the ground
next to him, before taking a step back. Milo shoved Eva to-
ward Dumas—she stumbled on the uneven surface, almost
losing her balance. Then he too, took a step back. The strange
choreography of all this wasn’t lost on Tom—an elaborate
ballet played out against an unheard and yet instinctively
understood melody.
“You’ve got company,” Archie’s voice suddenly crackled.
“Get out of there.”
“Get back to the boat!” Tom shouted.
Dumas reached for Eva but the air was suddenly split by
the sound of sirens as three unmarked police cars shot down
the ramp toward them. At the same time a helicop ter soared
over the rooftop of the neighboring building and swooped
down.
With an angry shout, Milo pulled his gun and advanced on
Dumas, snatching up the case and grabbing Eva by the wrist.
The man next to him swung a sub-machine gun out from
under his arm and emptied a full clip into the window of the
lead police vehicle, which swerved into the wall and then
flipped on to its side as it caught the curb. The car behind it
fired back, bullets pinging around their feet. Milo suddenly
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t w i n i n g
gave an anguished shout and held the case up. Three loose
shots had ricocheted off the ground and carved neat holes
right through its silver hide.
“You need to get out of there,” Archie urged him over the
radio.
“I can’t leave Eva.”
“It’s too late for that now, mate. Get out while you still
can.”
“Damn.” Tom punched the wheel.
Retreating toward his car, his gun still trained on a
bewildered-looking Dumas, Milo threw the case through the
open door before bundling Eva in after it and jumping in.
The car immediately leaped away with a screech of rubber,
the helicop ter setting off in pursuit with a dip of its rotors.
“Let’s go,” Tom shouted at Dumas over the noise.
Dumas turned and sprinted toward him, a stream of police
vehicles flowing over the neighboring bridge and disgorging
their uniformed occupants. A siren echoed up the river. Tom
turned to see a police launch bearing down on him from the
right, armed officers lining the stern rail. They had even less
time than Archie had suggested.
“Come on,” he urged. Dumas was now no more than ten
feet away. But even as he spoke, shots rang out, splintering
the ground around Dumas’s feet. He stumbled and then fell
heavily, groaning as the air was knocked out of him.
“Get up!”
“I’ve been hit,” Dumas shouted back, clutching his leg.
“Go. Find Milo. Don’t let them get you too.”
Tom hesitated, desperate not to compound the loss of both
Eva and the painting by leaving Dumas behind. A renewed
fusillade from the fast-closing police launch ripped across
the stern, sending clouds of stuffing from the sun beds twirl-
ing through the air like snow.
“Go,” Archie urged over the radio. “Go now before they
have to fish you out.”
Grim faced, Tom dumped the throttle into reverse, the
prow dipping as he retreated from the bank, then rising as he
throttled up again, the boat yawing to port as he straightened
up. He glanced over his shoulder as he pulled away; the
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
2 5 3
launch was bearing down on him, something indistinguish-
able being shouted over the loudhailer. Out of the corner of
his eye he saw Dumas being surrounded and handcuffed, the
bank swarming with armed offi cers.
The revs climbed, the hull clawing its way out of the water
as Tom adjusted the trim to keep the propellers submerged.
The increasing speed transformed the water’s previously lazy
embrace into a hard smack that vibrated up through the wheel
in time with the rise and fall of the engine’s thunder. Over the
noise he heard the rattle and fizz of police gunfire as the bul-
lets buried themselves in the water around him like hot coals
being flung angrily into a pond.
He suddenly caught sight of a police car on fire on the riv-
erbank ahead of him. Another one lay on its side, windows
shattered, its inert passengers hanging out through the half-
open doors. Milo’s ever lethal handiwork.
“Find out where they’re taking J-P,” Tom radioed Archie.
“What for?”
“So I can go in and get him.”
“Don’t be daft!”
“We can’t just leave him. Besides, it’s the last place they’ll
be looking for me.”
“You need to dump that boat fi rst.”
“I know. Meet me at the Pont de l’Alma. South side.”
As Tom reached the apex of the Allée des Cygnes he
swung the boat to the left, rounding the tip of the island in a
wide, keeling arc that sent a fan of water crashing over him.
