The Gilded Seal (29 page)

at the moment. Not when he was suspended from the bottom

of an armored van in a makeshift cradle that swayed wildly

every time it went around a corner, the road surface barely a

foot beneath him and his ears ringing with the whine and

mewl of sirens and screeching tires.

Of course he’d always known that getting close to the van

itself would be relatively easy. The sewers below the Louvre,

which were rarely patrolled, led directly from the manhole

outside up into the courtyard, with only a few padlocked

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gates to tackle on the way. The convoy had stopped predict-

ably close to the steps, and no more than ten or so feet from

the closest of the three or four manholes that dotted the cob-

bled area. He’d had to pick his moment, of course, but luckily

all the vehicles were parked so close together that once he’d

managed to slip under the police escort vehicle nearest to

him, it had been simple enough to crawl forward until he was

under the armored van.

His first task, once he had secured himself in place, had

been to patch into the van’s internal CCTV system. Accord-

ing to Archie, who had identified Brinks as the Louvre’s pri-

mary contractor for this type of operation, this could be

located via a small maintenance hatch about three feet in

front of the right rear wheel arch. As Archie had predicted,

the tamper-proof sensor had been pretty rudimentary, and

within a few minutes Tom’s pocket- size video display was

simultaneously relaying pictures from inside the van and re-

cording the footage. As usual, it had a three-man crew—two

in the front and one in the rear.

The vehicle itself was based on a Mercedes chassis and

had been custom built for Brinks by Labock Technologies.

Engineered to BR6 protection levels, it had been equipped

with bulletproof glass, gun ports and a computer-controlled

entry system complemented by pneumatic doors.

And yet despite this rather formidable pedigree, it had, ac-

cording to Archie, an Achilles heel. For reasons of weight

and cost and the belief that no one could possibly be so stu-

pid as to even try, the underside of the vehicle had not been

fully armor plated. At one point in partic ular, not only was

the metal a mere three inches thick, but nothing mechanical

or electrical lay between the underside of the floor and the

inside. This was something they could work to their advan-

tage.

Tom checked his watch, a vintage Panerai Marina Mili-

tare. He didn’t have much time. Reaching for his drill, he

carefully made a small hole up through the van’s fl oor, the

sound masked by the noise of the engine and the hand towel

he’d wrapped around the housing. As he approached the red

tape he’d fixed to the drill to indicate the precise thickness of

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

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the metal, he slowed the chuck speed down. A few seconds

later, he felt the tip nudge through.

He paused, waiting for the van to slow or for an angry

shout from above as the hole was discovered. But none came,

and the image on his small screen showed the guard in the

back reading a newspaper and sipping coffee from a thermos

flask. He breathed a sigh of relief. So far so good.

With a flick of a switch on his video display, he replaced

the live feed being broadcast into the front compartment with

a continuous loop of the previous few minutes’ footage that

he had just recorded. Now only he could see what was really

happening in the rear of the van.

He reached for a small bottle of compressed gas, inserted

the nozzle into the hole and turned it on. It took a couple of

seconds, the guard’s eyes drooping first, then his head sag-

ging on to his chest and his newspaper fl uttering to the fl oor

as the gas took effect.

With a smile, Tom jammed the radio and the phone con-

nections.

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

CONTROL ROOM, DENON WING, MUSÉE DU LOUVRE,

PARIS

22nd April— 5:18 p.m.

Ferrat and Ledoux stared at her blankly, and Jennifer real-

ized that, after what had just happened, they were going

to need a proper explanation.

“He’s fooled us. Me more than anyone.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was a set- up. He acted suspiciously so I would start

asking questions. He gave me his briefcase, guessing that I’d

go through it. He allowed me to see him stepping out of that

van, knowing I’d see the name of the air-con company. He

even admitted what he was planning, trusting that I’d come

here and tell you everything and that you’d believe me.”

“He knew you’d betray him?” Ferrat frowned in surprise.

“He was counting on it,” she said, frustration at her own

naivete tempered only by her growing anger with Tom. He’d

used her. From the moment they’d met outside the Louvre,

he’d played her. She felt almost dizzy as the past few days re-

arranged themselves in her mind, as all her bearings were

suddenly swept away. “He was counting on me believing that

he was going to break in here and steal the
Mona Lisa
. He

was counting on me telling you.”

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

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“You mean he wasn’t planning to steal it?” Ledoux looked

confused, the foundation coating his face cracking under the

stress of the past few hours.

“Oh, he was planning to take it, just not from here. The

whole time all he really wanted was to scare you into moving

the painting to a different location. He must have known

about your contingency plan, about the armored convoy. He

knew you would listen to me. He must think he’s got more

chance out there than he has in here.”

“Then what do you think we should do?” Ledoux looked

first to Jennifer, then Ferrat, who shrugged helplessly.

“Get the convoy to turn around and come back here,” Jen-

nifer suggested. “The Louvre is the safest place for it.”

With a nod of agreement from Ferrat, Ledoux crossed to

the radio. He tried it once, twice, then looked up, his jaw

clenched.

“I can’t get through.”

C H A P T E R F O R T Y- S I X

PORTE MAILLOT, 16TH ARRONDISSEMENT, PARIS

22nd April— 5:18 p.m.

There was only one way inside the van—through the

floor. Fine in theory, since the carbide-tipped hardened

steel blade of his small circular saw was capable of cutting

through six-inch steel plate in less than twelve seconds, while

the van’s floor was only three inches thick at his point of entry.

Slightly more tricky in practice.

Quite apart from the difficulty of safely manipulating a

saw underneath a moving vehicle, there was the constant

risk of the sparks being seen as they sprayed to the ground.

Not to mention, of course, the danger of being heard, the

blade shrieking like a deranged cat as it clawed away at the

metal.

The solution to the sparks had been to seal a small

hammock-like structure of fi re-resistant material around the

area where he was cutting to capture the glowing shards be-

fore they fell to the ground. It wasn’t perfect, but so far it

seemed to be holding up well. As for the noise, here Tom was

trusting in the meaty whine of the van’s diesel engine and the

armor plating to soundproof his activity.

His eyes smarting from the exhaust, his throat burning

with the tang of hot oil, and his arms aching from holding

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them over his head, it took ten precious minutes to fashion a

hole big enough to fit though. It felt much longer.

He pushed the section of floor he’d cut free back into the

van and placed his arms inside. Then, using his elbows, he

levered his head and shoulders through the gap. The gas had

cleared but the guard was still slumped in the seat to his

right. A series of lockers lined the left-hand wall.

Tom inched along the cradle, hauling himself in until he

was able to sit up. Then he leaned forward and swung his

legs out and behind him so that he was lying on his stomach.

Finally he pulled himself forward, his feet momentarily

catching on the road before he gratefully snatched them away

and lifted them inside. He rolled on to his back, gasping, the

sweat stinging his eyes and soaking his clothes. A year out of

the game had clearly taken its toll on his fitness, although his

time away had sharpened his enjoyment of the sharp punch

of adrenaline that was coursing through him like electricity.

He checked his watch again. The Louvre’s secure facility

was located near St. Germain in northwestern Paris, a jour-

ney of twenty-five to thirty minutes at most when you didn’t

have to worry about traffic or stopping at the lights. That

gave him less than fifteen minutes to locate the painting and

get out.

He scrambled over to the guard and unclipped the key ring

from his belt. The slim metal case was in the third locker he

tried. He slid it out and placed it gently on the floor. It was

secured by an electronic lock operated by a standard numeri-

cal keypad. Reaching into one of his pockets, he extracted a

small device and clicked it into place over the number pad.

Flicking it on, he pressed a button and immediately the LED

display on the box lit up as the device began to test every

combination between 0000 and 9999. In this case, at least,

Tom mused as the numbers scrolled across the screen, there

was no danger of the box spraying purple dye over its con-

tents if it was tampered with, as would happen with a cash

shipment.

It stopped sooner than he’d expected, the box unlocking

with a muffled click. Tom smiled as he saw the number fl ash-

ing on the display: 1519. The year of da Vinci’s death. He

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probably could have guessed it if he’d tried. He placed his

hand on the box, took a deep breath, and carefully opened

the lid.

There she was. The
Mona Lisa
.
La Joconde. La Gio-

conda
. Gazing up at him with a curious, vulnerable smile.

He wondered how many people over the years had been

alone with her as he was now. Unchaperoned, free to gaze,

even to touch. Not many. Not recently, at any rate. She seemed

even more delicate and petite now than she had in the Louvre

and Tom was almost afraid to lift her.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered. “I’m here to help.”

He unstrapped the small padded container that he had

been wearing across his chest and ripped open the Velcro

seals. It didn’t have the climate controls of this specially de-

signed transportation box, but Tom wasn’t planning on going

far. He removed his outer gloves, revealing another clean

white pair that he was wearing underneath. Then, he deli-

cately lifted the painting out of the metal box and placed it in

the padded container.

Pausing only to place a small black object inside the metal

box, he shut its lid, removed his electronic opening device

and then scrambled the code. Checking that it was securely

locked, he slid it back inside the locker and then fastened the

door, replacing the keys on the guard’s belt.

The van suddenly braked, throwing Tom off his feet and

almost through the hole in the floor, the road beneath him a

dizzying blur of stained concrete. He struggled to his feet

with a worried frown as they slowed to a halt, his left wrist

throbbing where he’d taken the brunt of the fall. What was

going on? They had to be at least three miles from where he

had planned to jump out. Had they hit traffi c?

Then he heard the unmistakable sound of gunfi re.

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

ST. CLOUD, NORTHERN PARIS

22nd April— 5:34 p.m.

There it is!” Djoulou, sweat beading his brow, pointed at

the convoy ahead of them as it bulldozed through the

early- evening traffic, cars leaping out of its way as if they’d

been stung.

“We need to get ahead of them,” Eva urged.

“There’s a tunnel up ahead.” Milo pointed calmly at the

sat-nav display. “Get the chopper to land on the other side.

We’ll come up behind and trap them.”

“You want them to land on a road?” Djoulou gave him a

questioning look.

“Is that a problem?”

The tunnel entrance reared up ahead of them like the bar-

rels of a shotgun, two wide openings that burrowed deep into

the side of the steeply rising hill. Djoulou radioed the heli-

cop ter tracking them overhead. A few moments later it broke

to the right and swooped out of view.

“Now let’s even up the odds—” Milo pointed at the two

outriders bringing up the rear of the convoy.

With a nod, Djoulou stamped on the gas, the car lurching

forward as it bore down on the motorcyclists. As they drew

level, one of the policemen caught sight of them and ordered

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them back with an angry wave of his hand. Grinning sadisti-