The Gilded Seal (17 page)

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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t w i n i n g

“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?”

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

1 1 7

“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

of Lewis and his lying camera and his twisted smile.

She thought of proving him, and all those people who

were so quick to doubt her, wrong.

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

SECOND FLOOR, DENON WING, MUSÉE DU LOUVRE, PARIS

20th April— 4:33 p.m.

I’m sorry, but can you say that again?” Philippe Troussard

asked, his head cocked slightly to the left. A large French

tricolor, tipped with a golden spearhead, stood guard next to

him, its pregnant folds brushing the parquet fl oor.

“You heard him first time, Philippe,” Dumas said sharply.

“He’s serious.”

Troussard switched his stony gaze back to Dumas. The

two men were similar in age, although Troussard certainly

looked the better for it, with a healthily tanned face, clear

hazel eyes and a full head of curly steel-gray hair. Wearing

an expensive blue suit, pale blue shirt and colorful Gucci tie,

he projected a confident and determined presence, although

Tom detected a certain instinctive arrogance in the way he

peered at people over the top of his half-moon glasses, nar-

rowing his eyes when they spoke as if silently scoring them.

Judging from his skeptical expression, Tom guessed they

were still in the low single digits.

Dumas, by contrast, was having difficulty masking the

self-wrought ravages of the past few months, despite having

sobered up, shaved and pulled his hair back into a neat pony-

tail at Tom’s insistence. The clear bell of his voice was

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

1 1 9

cracked, his skin weathered and gray, his hands trembling

and uncertain. The only clean clothes in his apartment had

been a crumpled T-shirt and jeans, which he had insisted on

wearing with a black leather jacket, giving him the appear-

ance of an aging rock star.

“How are you, Jean-Pierre?” Troussard’s brow furrowed

with concern. “Not too bored with civilian life, I hope? How’s

your wife? Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot.”

“They’re planning to steal it,” Tom insisted in fl uent French

before Dumas could react. “We’re here to help.”

“Did you hear that, Cécile?” Troussard sneered. “They’re

here to help.”

Cécile Levy, the Curator of Paintings at the Louvre,

stepped forward and fished anxiously inside a well-worn red

Kelly bag for a pack of Marlboro Lights. Extracting one, she

placed it between her lips, fumbling with her lighter until she

managed to strike a flame on the fourth or fi fth attempt.

Clearly the
No Smoking
signs that littered the museum ap-

plied to everyone except Louvre staff members. She inhaled

gratefully, a dark silhouette against the gold lettering that

speckled the leather spines of the books behind her like stars

in a clear night sky.

The nicotine seemed to calm her and Tom wondered

whether she was naturally nervous, or whether the pale dent

on her ring finger hinted at the still-tender bruising of a re-

cent divorce? Perhaps both. Either way, she looked younger

than her forty-five years, with her jet-black bob held off a

pale face by the Chanel sunglasses perched on top of her

head, thick mascara coating her eyelashes, a slash of red across

her lips.

“What is it you think you know, exactly?” she asked Tom,

her curious tone in stark contrast to Troussard’s studied in-

difference.

“I know that a man’s been killed. A friend of mine,” Tom

replied. “I know that he left me some fi les: blueprints of the

Louvre, guard rotas, passwords, alarm systems . . .” He’d

printed off some of the files at Dumas’s apartment and he ar-

ranged the pages on Troussard’s desk as he spoke. “He was

working for someone called Milo.”

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t w i n i n g

“Milo did some covert work for us a few years ago,” Du-

mas confirmed. “Believe me, he’s more than capable of pull-

ing something like this off.”

Troussard uncrossed his legs, leaned forward and ran a

skeptical eye over the documents, before sitting back with a

shrug.

“We had a small security breach about six months ago.

An employee was selling access to some of our intrusion-

prevention and detection measures. We had to overhaul the

entire system. These documents are out of date.”

“If they got hold of them once, then they can do it again,”

Dumas warned him.

“How do you know it’s
La Joconde
they’re after?” Levy,

still standing, used the French name for the
Mona Lisa
.

“My friend was an art forger. Along with the fi les, he left

me a painting,” Tom explained, “a forgery of the
Mona Lisa
.

A good one. Knowing Milo, my guess is that he was plan-

ning to get in here somehow and swap it. As far as I know, he

still is—as soon as he can get hold of another copy.”

“Your
guess
?” Troussard laughed, as he placed his hands

behind his head and kicked back in his chair. “That’s all

you’ve got? A few out-of-date guard rotas and a vague gut

feeling, and you expect me to hit the panic button?”

“You think we’re making this up?” Dumas countered.

“I don’t know.” Troussard fixed him with a blank stare.

“Are you?”

“It’s not that we don’t appreciate you coming here,” Levy

reassured them gently, stubbing her half-fi nished cigarette

out, scarlet lipstick glowing on the filter. “But you have to

realize that barely a week goes by without some lunatic threat-

ening to steal, burn or blow up
La Joconde.
”

“Is that what you think we are? Lunatics?” Dumas asked

indignantly.

“My point is, she attracts artistic stalkers,” Levy continued.

“The sort of people who write in telling us that they’ve dis-

covered some incredible relationship between the painting’s

dimensions and Léonard’s birth date, or that
La Joconde
is

not actually a woman at all but Léonard’s gay lover.”

Léonard. Even though they were all speaking French,

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

1 2 1

something in Tom instinctively objected to the Frenchifi ca-

tion of da Vinci’s name. It seemed at best affected, at worst a

painfully clumsy attempt to appropriate him as one of their

own. The rest of the world called him Leonardo. Why did the

French always insist on being different?

“Conspiracy theories,” said Troussard with a dismissive

toss of his head. “I blame the Americans.”

No surprises there, Tom thought to himself. This seemed

to be the
Lord’s Prayer
of the French governing classes:

When in doubt, blame the Yanks.

“So it’s no surprise to us that someone is planning to steal

La Joconde
,” Levy continued. “Someone, somewhere, al-

ways is. It’s part of what makes her what she is.”

“They can plan all they want, as far as I’m concerned,”

sneered Troussard. “She lives under twenty-four-hour armed

guard in a purpose-

built room. She’s the best-protected

woman on the planet. She’s not going anywhere.”

“There’s no such thing as perfect security,” Tom said

fi rmly.

“You asked us up here because you
know
there’s a risk,”

Dumas added. “Small, maybe, but a risk nonetheless. All

we’re asking is that you look into it.”

“I asked you up here because I wanted to see for myself if

the stories were true.” Troussard got to his feet and marched

around the desk, looming over Dumas. “That you’d lost it.

Gone off the rails. Well, they were wrong. You’re twice as

fucked up as I ever thought you’d be. Look at you. You’re a

disgrace. No wonder they kicked you out.”

With a flourish, he threw the plans that Tom had laid out

on the desk into Dumas’s lap. Dumas shot out of the chair

and squared up to him, but Tom immediately stepped be-

tween them.