The Gilded Seal (34 page)

“Just borrowing it.”

He’d come by boat because it afforded him the option of a

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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.

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“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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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

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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.

Just for a moment, he was frozen under the imperious gaze of

the small Statue of Liberty that stood there. Then he acceler-

ated away, shaking the water from his face as he doubled

back on himself on the other side of the island. He glanced

over his shoulder and saw that he was pulling away from the

chasing launch. Good. The important thing now was to put

as much distance as he could between them.

The gardens of the Parc Citroën flashed past, then the Bir-

Hakeim Bridge and, to his right, the elegant thrust of the

Eiffel Tower and the sparkling windows of the parked tourist

coaches. He knew he could outrun them in this boat, but for

how long? Reaching into the storage hatch in front of him, he

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found a flashlight, an empty beer can and a piece of rope.

More than long enough for what he needed.

He carefully fixed one end of the rope to the wheel and

then, as he hugged the bend and pointed it toward the open

stretch of water ahead of him, secured it against the throttle

lever. Glancing behind, he saw that, as he had hoped, the pur-

suing launch had momentarily disappeared behind the natu-

ral curve of the river. With a final tweak to the boat’s steering,

he stepped up on to the side and dived in.

A few seconds later, the police launch roared into view

and shot past, Tom barely visible in the shadowy waters that

lazed under the Alma Bridge. The surging wash swept Tom

closer to the bank and, as the engine noise faded, he hauled

himself out of the water.

“Nicely done,” Archie panted as he made his way down to

him. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Did you find out where they’ve taken J-P?”

“The central police station for the fi rst arrondissement.

Apparently that’s where they’re coordinating the entire in-

vestigation from.”

In the distance, a sudden flash and the momentarily de-

layed boom of an explosion told them both that the boat had

finally ran out of river.

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

CENTRAL POLICE STATION, 1ST ARRONDISSEMENT, PARIS

23rd April— 1:33 p.m.

Jean- Pierre Dumas, DST,” Tom lied.

The duty officer, a phone pressed against one ear and an

old woman complaining about the noise from a neighboring

flat monopolizing the other, barely glanced at the pass as he

buzzed Tom in. It was just as well, because although he had

dressed in Dumas’s usual camoufl age of black leather jacket

and jeans complemented by a baseball cap, a closer inspec-

tion of the outdated ID that Dumas had left in his jacket

would have quickly revealed the deception.

Inside, uniformed and plainclothes officers swarmed anx-

iously through the corridors. Some were on their phones, oth-

ers were ignoring the
No Smoking
signs, their ties loosened

and shirts hanging out of their trousers. The frantic pitch of

the constant buzz and drone of their conversations and

snatched phone calls suggested that the afternoon’s events

had served as another sharp kick against the hive. Tom found

an empty office and grabbed a stack of case fi les and a radio

from the desk to round out his disguise before heading out

again.

“Where are the holding cells?” Tom intercepted an offi cer

as he hurried past.

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“Who are you?” the man shot back suspiciously.

“Dumas. DST,” Tom lied again, flashing his badge and

making sure that the officer also saw the police radio shoved

into his jacket pocket, broadcasting static.

“You must be here to see the FBI agent. Lucky you!” He

winked.

“What FBI agent?”

“The woman. She’s in Interview Room 2. We thought we’d

let her stew in there for a while until we interrogate her

again. You know, soften her up.”

“Oh, her.” Tom flicked open one of the files and pretended

to read from it, careful to conceal his surprise. “Jennifer

Browne. Yeah, she’s cute.” He smiled at the officer and snapped

the fi le shut.

What the hell was Jennifer doing here? Had she been ar-

rested? Did they think she was involved somehow? He felt a

sudden stab of guilt.

“What about the guy you just pulled off the riverbank,” he

asked hopefully.

“We shipped him out about fifteen minutes ago,” he said

gleefully. “The bastard took two slugs in the leg, but your lot

want to question him over in Rue Nelaton before they let

him go to the hospital. Said the pain would help jog his

memory.”

Tom’s heart sank. Rue Nelaton was the DST headquarters

over in the fifteenth. There was no chance he’d be able to get

in there. At least not without a fight. But in the meantime

there was still Jennifer.

“Where are the interview rooms? I might go down and see

if Agent Browne is as hot in the flesh as she looks in her

photo,” Tom asked with a wink.

“Down there and on the right. Take your time. She’s not

going anywhere. Not for the next twenty years, I’d say.” He