The Gilded Seal (26 page)

call them when I got back to the States.”

“You’re going home?” He sounded surprised.

“I have a flight this afternoon.”

“Then I’m glad I caught you.”

“You’ve found out what the number is?” she guessed, sit-

ting forward in anticipation.

“I called in a favor,” he said, glancing nervously around

the lobby. “Someone who has access to the Louvre’s cata-

loguing system. And . . .” His voice petered out, as if he was

unsure whether he should continue.

“And?” she encouraged him.

“And it seems that what you gave me is the accession num-

ber for the
Mona Lisa
.”

“The
Mona Lisa
?” She shook her head in disbelief.

“By Leonardo da Vinci.”

“I know what the
Mona Lisa
is,” she said curtly, a little

riled that Besson had mistaken her astonishment for igno-

rance. Then again, most Europeans seemed to assume that

American appreciation of foreign culture didn’t extend far

beyond Mexican food and Cuban cigars. “I’m just surprised.”

“To be honest, so was I.” Besson gave an excited cough.

“Can I ask where you came across it?”

“You can ask, but I’m afraid I can’t tell you.”

“No, of course,” he said hurriedly. “Anyway, I thought it

best not to leave a note at reception.” He snatched another

apprehensive look at the glowering concierge.

t h e g i l d e d s e a l

1 8 3

“You did the right thing. I really appreciate you coming

over.”

“My pleasure, Made moi selle Browne.” They stood up and

shook hands. “Good luck with your case.”

Jennifer slumped back on to the sofa, alone with her

thoughts, as Besson shuffled toward the entrance, the con-

cierge ushering him outside with a contemptuous glare. Why

would Hammon have been sent the
Mona Lisa
’s accession

number? What did the $100 million refer to? The
Mona Lisa
?

Was someone offering to sell the
Mona Lisa
to him? That

made no sense at all. The
Mona Lisa
was safely in the Louvre.

How could you sell something you didn’t have? Unless . . .

She paused, struck by a sudden, terrible thought. A thought

that she dismissed almost as soon as it occurred to her. No.

Surely not? Even he would never dare . . .

But she had to be certain.

She raced across the lobby and into the elevator, leaping

out on the fourth floor and letting herself into her room. Tom’s

leather briefcase was in the wardrobe where she’d placed it

the previous night. She snatched it up and set it on the bed, her

mind racing, hating what she was thinking but unable to stop

herself.

What had Tom been doing at the Louvre yesterday? What

had been on that piece of paper he had been studying so in-

tently and then guiltily hidden away? Why was he being so

evasive and vague about what he was up to in Paris? What

had prompted that rather strange discussion about what she

would do if she found he was involved in a job? Why had he

really taken off last night the moment someone had men-

tioned the police?

And most pertinently, as she gazed down at it, what was

prompting him to carry this briefcase around with him all

the time, clutching it to his side like a child grasping a favor-

ite toy?

This last question, at least, was one she could answer now.

She removed a safety pin from the complimentary sewing

kit provided by the hotel, opened it and then trapped it in the

minibar door until she had bent it into a small hook. Insert-

ing it into the lock, she carefully moved it around until she

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t w i n i n g

felt it catch against the mechanism. With a flick of her wrist,

the lock clicked open.

The briefcase contained a thick sheaf of paper which she

removed. As she examined each one in turn, she felt herself

being gripped by a growing sense of disbelief and horror. A

list of the Louvre guards, their ages and addresses. A sche-

matic of the main alarm system. The layout of the under-

ground service tunnels and sewers. The location of all the

cameras and their cycle times.

It’s not possible
, she said to herself. There must be another

explanation, another reason why Tom had these. But however

hard she tried to discount what she was seeing, each new

document removed another barrowful of earth from under

the crumbling wall of Tom’s presumed innocence.

So much so that, when it came, the final document was

almost something of a relief, the exhaustion of resisting wave

after wave of marauding attacks finally replaced by a surge

of instinctive anger as the final ramparts of his honesty came

crashing down. It was a blank page with a single number on

it. A number she recognized instantly.

The
Mona Lisa
’s accession number.

C H A P T E R T H I R T Y- S E V E N

RUE CHRISTINE, 6TH ARRONDISSEMENT, PARIS

22nd April— 11:37 a.m.

The one-way street was blocked by a car, hazard lights

blinking. The van slowed to a halt, its driver sounding

his horn impatiently.

“What’s going on?” a muffled voice called from behind

him.

“Some idiot’s double-parked,” the driver yelled back, cran-

ing his head through the open window. “Come on!” he shouted,

the horn again echoing down the narrow street.

Still, the car didn’t move, although the engine appeared to

be running.

“Michel?” He smacked the leg of the man snoozing to his

right, who woke with a start. “Go and tell that moron to move

his damned car. I’ve got better things to do than sit here all

day.”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Tom, appearing at the

open window, a gun in his hand. “Out. Both of you.”

Their eyes bulging, the two men slipped and stumbled out

of the driver’s side door, their eyes locked on the squat barrel

aimed at their chests. Archie, meanwhile, opened the pas-

senger door and climbed in. Ahead of them, Dumas turned

the car’s hazard lights off and eased away.

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t w i n i n g

His gun concealed in his coat pocket, Tom led the men

around to the rear of the van. A small queue of traffic had al-

ready built up behind them.

“If you say a word, I’ll kill you,” Tom hissed, waving

apologetically at the waiting cars to indicate that they would

shortly be moving on. Tom had no intention of shooting any-

one, of course. In fact the gun wasn’t even loaded. But for

this to work, they needed to believe he might.

“Get in,” he ordered.

They did as they were told, surprising a third person who

appeared to be in the middle of an early lunch.

“What’s this?” he mumbled, his mouth full.

“Shut up,” said Tom as he climbed in after them and pulled

the door shut. “Get over there,” he directed, waving the gun

in the direction of the bench that ran down the right-hand

side of the van. “Let’s go,” he shouted, banging the roof and

swaying gently as the van pulled away.

“What do you want?” one of the men asked fearfully.

“We don’t carry any cash in the van,” another cautioned.

“Everything’s on account.”

“Your clothes,” Tom said with a smile. “We just want your

clothes.”

C H A P T E R T H I R T Y- E I G H T

POMPIDOU CENTER, 4TH ARRONDISSEMENT, PARIS

22nd April— 12:20 p.m.

Anarrow slice of the Pompidou Center was framed be-

tween the two gray buildings ahead of Jennifer, the

childishly bright reds, greens and blues making it seem un-

real, almost cartoonish. It was only as she drew closer that she

could see that the colors defined an erupting, tangled mass of

pipes and escalators—the structure’s veins and arteries—all

encased in a white, skeletal frame. It was almost as if the

building had been turned in on itself, like a glove.

The piazza in front of the main entrance was still rela-

tively quiet, a small crowd having formed around a fi re-eater,

a couple of kids practicing skateboarding tricks alongside the

ever-present caricature artists and hair- braiders.

She made her way up the escalators to the second fl oor and

then paused on the landing, wondering if she might be able

to see Tom arriving and, if so, whether he was alone. Sure

enough, about five minutes later, Tom stepped out of a blue

van that had pulled up just off the piazza.

“Can I borrow that for a second?” she asked the tourist

standing next to her. “Police business.”

With a puzzled frown, the man lifted his camera off his

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t w i n i n g

neck and handed it to her. Adjusting the telephoto, she

zoomed in first on the van, making a mental note of the name

painted on its side. Then she panned across and saw Tom

make his way into an adjacent toyshop, emerging a few min-

utes later with a small bag that he tossed to the driver. Her

eyes narrowed as she recognized the man behind the wheel.

Archie. So Tom had lied about him not being in Paris too.

Gritting her teeth in anger, she handed the camera back to

the bewildered tourist and made her way up to the viewing

platform on the top floor. From there she could make out the

squat mass of Notre Dame, the delicate spider’s web of the

Eiffel Tower and, between them, the gilded dome of Les In-

valides. It was there, little more than a year ago, that Tom

had repaid her faith in him by saving her life. How misguided

that faith seemed now.

“Sorry I’m late.”

Tom stepped off the escalator.

“No problem.”

“And I’m sorry about last night too.” He gave an embar-

rassed shrug. “I guess I lost my temper.”

“Is this what you came for?”

She held out his briefcase, her face unsmiling, her voice

hard.

“Yeah.” He reached for it, smiling gratefully, but as he

went to take it, she pulled it away.

“What’s going on, Tom?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve opened it.” She pointed at him accusingly. “I know

what you’re planning.”

He snatched it off her angrily.

“You had no right . . .”

“The Louvre? The
Mona Lisa
? Are you fucking insane?”

“Keep your bloody voice down,” Tom hissed, grabbing her

by the elbow and steering her toward a deserted part of the

viewing platform.

“You said you were out,” she said, wrenching her arm

free.

“It’s not that simple,” he insisted.

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1 8 9

“You’re planning to steal the
Mona Lisa
. That sounds

pretty simple to me.”

“I’ve got no choice. I tried to warn the Louvre, but they

didn’t believe me.”

“Warn them about what?”

“That someone else is planning to take it. A thief called

Milo. I’m going to stop him.”

“You mean you’re going to steal it instead?”

“I’m going to give it back.”

“Oh please.” She rolled her eyes and gave a sarcastic laugh.

“You really expect me to buy that? You and Archie are back

in the game, aren’t you? That’s why he’s here with you. All

that bullshit about giving up, about never being tempted. You

were just telling me what I wanted to hear. You’ve got it all

worked out.”

“Milo’s kidnapped someone. A girl called Eva. A friend of

mine.” There was a desperate edge to Tom’s voice now. ’I

don’t care about the painting. I just need it as a bargaining

chip. Milo’s planning to go in tonight. I’ve got to make my

move first. If I don’t, he’ll kill her.”

Jennifer shook her head, drilling him with a disbelieving

look.

“You lied to me, Tom.”

“Only because I knew what you’d say,” he pleaded. “I

knew you’d try and stop me.”

“You’re damn right I’m going to stop you.”

“Why does everything have to be so black and white with

you?” he countered angrily.

“Not black and white: right or wrong.”

“The right thing is to do what I can to save Eva. The right

thing is to trust me.”

“How the hell do you expect me to do that after this?”

“That’s something you’re going to have to figure out for

yourself,” Tom shot back. “Just don’t get in my way.”

Jennifer’s eyes blazed as Tom retreated down the escala-

tor. The funny thing was that even now, angry as she was,

despite everything she’d seen, a small part of her wanted to

believe him. But it was hard to overlook the documents in his

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t w i n i n g

briefcase or the piece of paper in Hammon’s offi ce that

looked for all the world like an offer to sell the
Mona Lisa
.

And harder still to believe that Tom, despite all his pro-

tests, could ever really change who or what he was.

C H A P T E R T H I R T Y- N I N E

RICHELIEU WING, MUSÉE DU LOUVRE, PARIS

22nd April— 4:02 p.m.

Can I help you?” the security guard challenged them as

they approached through the main works entrance.

“We’re from the architects.” Milo held out two fake badges

and a forged letter from the firm responsible for the renova-