At two o'clock, Félix Lemieux presented the security plan developed by his staff in the Louvre, with an assist from old friends in the French Secret Service. Details were contained on sixteen printed pages and bound into a black folder. Each council member received a numbered copy and signed a statement acknowledging that the information was privileged and to be kept secret. Lemieux stood beside an easel, on which he placed drawings and photographs: a detailed street map of Aix-en-Provence; layouts of the two display floors in the Granet; exterior and interior photographs of the thirteenth-century church of St.-Jean-de-Malte, which abuts the Granet, showing how it could be a haven for anyone preparing an assault on the museum. “We will place a special surveillance team inside the church, dressed in priests' robes, trained in rudimentary clerical duties, and equipped with cellular phones.” Included in Lemieux's presentation were diagrams of a closed-circuit television system that had been installed in the Granet a year earlier and additional slides to show the planned enhancements of the system. “Unfortunately we have not been guaranteed installation of these changes until February 1, and we will therefore employ additional guards until the new system is fully operational.”
Lemieux concluded by saying that a small army might, with force and firepower, penetrate the rings of protection that were envisioned, but it will be impossible for one or two persons to pass through undetected. The consensus around the table was that Lemieux's strategy was an imaginative combination of manpower and technology.
Lemieux's presentation set the stage for Mirella LeBorgne. LeBorgne, as Oxby knew so well, was a combination of scholar, teacher, and lecturer. She was a handsome, not quite pretty, woman of fiftythree, tall, spare, but with a wide, open face that radiated an immediately likable charm.
“Oh, my!” were her first words, said with a smile and undisguised consternation. “You know that I'm rarely at a loss for words, but at this precise moment I don't know what to say. You see, Iâwe have a terribly important decision to make, and while some of you have already made yours and feel that the retropective should open on schedule, I haven't arrived at that decision, not yet at least. If the exhibit opens, and any one of the paintings is destroyed or damaged
in the slightest way, I would never forgive myself, nor would millions of people forgive me or any of you. The question I am struggling to answer is this: Will Vulcan get by all of Félix Lemieux's security arrangements and do the unthinkable yet again? I am here to listen, and I invite you to speak up.”
Oxby asked to be recognized. “I know you face a difficult decision; however, I strongly urge that you say yes. May I explain why?”
Mirella LeBorgne smiled. “Please, by all means.”
Oxby said, “The motivation for destroying the portraits has been to send prices up on all paintings by Cézanne. Now comes the retrospective, tailor-made to send interest in Cézanne's works into the stratosphere and flush out an entirely new group of collectors, each one hoping to catch a Cézanne before prices go completely out of sight. The one concern I have about Vulcan and his pals is whether or not they have their inventory of Cézanne or if they're planning to pick up one or two between now and January 19. They won't attempt to break into the Granet; they know that this group will put an impenetrable curtain around the museum, and they will have confirmation of that fact when Félix's program is given full press coverage. In fact, they would agree that the safest place for a painting by Cézanne will be on the wall in the Granet come next January. However, between now and then, every Cézanne is at risk, and the ones most vulnerable are the self-portraits.”
“We know where every one of them is,” Lemieux replied. “They should be taken off the walls and put into hiding.”
“If we do that, we don't catch Vulcan.”
“What's your strategy?” Sam Turner asked.
“To flush out Vulcan before January 19. And we might do that by creating a situation so tempting, he'll show his hand.” Oxby paused, “Edwin Llewellyn, who was with us earlier, has consented to travel from Paris to Aix-en-Provence with his now-famous Cézanne self-portrait, showing the painting to the public as a demonstration of his deep concern for the success of the retrospective. I have told Mr. Llewellyn that he will become a lightning rod, an idea which has not particularly endeared me to my new friend.” The comment brought laughter, though not from Henri Trama, who got to his feet and directed a cold stare at Oxby.
“Who protects Monsieur Llewellyn, Inspector?”
“I have personally made secure arrangements, Henri,” Oxby said respectfully, “and I hope to solicit additional help from your office.”
“That's not a matter I can approve.” He said the words quickly, perhaps angrily.
Oxby went on. “Officially, I will be on leave from the Yard during Mr. Llewellyn's trip and will keep him under close observation at all times.”
Madame LeBorgne asked, “How certain can you be that Vulcan will turn into lightning and try to strike your Mr. Llewellyn?”
“Betting odds open at even money,” Oxby replied.
Â
Scooter Albany was slouched in a chair outside the meeting room, an arm drooped to his side, a hand clasped around an empty glass. As the council members filed out, he got to his feet and hovered behind Oxby while the detective had last-minute words with Mirella LeBorgne and Félix Lemieux.
“How'd it go?” Scooter asked when they were alone.
“About as I expected,” Oxby replied. “Can I buy you a drink?”
Scooter grinned.
They sat by the window in the bar, “Is the show on or off?” Scooter asked cryptically.
“Very much on,” Oxby said with enthusiasm. “Félix put a strong plan together, and you can help make it stronger.”
“Me?” he laughed. “I don't know the first thing about security, except skirting around it to get at a story.”
“But you're good at writing stories and getting them on television. Now I have a different story. Suppose you had the chance to travel with Edwin Llewellyn from Paris to Aix, and suppose he were to take his Cézanne painting along, and suppose further that you could record the trip and send nightly reports to your television contacts. Would that interest you?”
“Bet your sweet ass it would.” Scooter put away half of a double vodka martini, then asked, “Why me?”
“You two are friends, and he likes your golden Olds.”
Scooter tossed down the second half of his drink and got to his feet. “I need a refill.” He turned to go to the bar as Sam Turner came to the table.
“Mind if I steal a few minutes?”
Oxby waved Sam into the chair. “What did you think of the meeting?”
Sam said, “It was okay. Lemieux did a good job, and Mirella Laeorgne is a sweetheart, but your little bombshell was a surprise. If
you set up Llewellyn the way you described, he might end up very dead. Trama damned well didn't go for it.”
Oxby shook his head. “I hoped he might show some enthusiasm; instead he froze the air. Obviously he wants to catch Vulcan, and he doesn't want to help anyone else do it.”
“So who protects Llewellyn?”
“I can get help in Paris, even without Trama. And in Lyon. I don't have contacts in Avignon, but I'll have my own people.”
“You're Scotland Yard, Jack, not some goddamned branch of the French Judiciare.”
“Sam, I don't want to throw away this opportunity.” He looked squarely at Turner, “I may need your help.”
“You aren't supposed to carry a gun, and I'm not supposed to chase peopleâother than that, we'll make a hell of a team.” He nodded. “I'll do what I can.”
Scooter came back with another double, though half consumed. “Anyone want a drink? I'm buying.”
Turner said, “I'll take a rain check, and don't forget it.” To Oxby he said, “And don't you forget you're coming to Lyon in exactly ten days.”
P
aris was unseasonably warm, and sidewalk tables at the cafe near the Hôtel Vieux Marais were filled. Astrid stood by an open window and watched the traffic along Rue Plâtre. It was noon. The phone rang. It was Peder.
“Yes,” she answered.
“What do you see?”
“At a table outside the cafe I see the same one who followed me into the hotel yesterday.”
“Are you sure?”
“It's the black man with a beard. He's wearing a sweater and a green jacket with something on the back that I can't make out.”
“Alone?”
“I think so.”
“Go to the cafe and order a glass of wine and something to eat. Call me from the phone inside the cafe and tell me if he's alone.”
“Peder, why are they following me?” Her voice dimmed.
“They want to know why you're in Paris. They are guessing that you are meeting someone.”
“Who is guessing?”
“Oxby. He's very thorough. The good ones are.” He gave her his phone number and asked her to repeat it. That was it.
There were no empty tables, so Astrid sat at one with a stout, pleasant woman who was deeply engrossed in writing postcards to her friends in Waterloo, Iowa. She was also anxious to tell anyone who would listen that this was her first trip to Paris. “It's everything I had ever dreamed it would be,” she gushed.
Astrid nodded politely, pretending not to understand.
The woman seemed embarrassed and went back to her correspondence.
Astrid used the little French that she knew and asked for a glass of red wine and pointed to the sandwich she wanted on the menu. The
man in the green jacket sat three tables away. He had put a magazine on the table next to his coffee and occasionally looked at his watch as if he were impatiently waiting for a tardy friend.
She took a bite from her sandwich then got to her feet and said to the woman that she would come back, saying it awkwardly in French. The woman tilted her head and smiled as if she had understood perfectly.
Astrid found the phone. “Tell me again,” she held the phone tight to her ear and listened intently. She returned to the table and remained there nibbling on the sandwich, sipping the wine. After exactly ten minutes she paid for the meal and went out to the sidewalk. The cafe was at the intersection of Rue du Temple and Rue Plâtre as Peder had said. She turned right and walked for two blocks. Ahead and to her left was a globe marking the entrance to the Métro. She crossed the street and stopped by a window filled with artificial flowers. She looked back along Rue du Temple. The green jacket had also stopped.
She walked faster. At the entrance to the Métro there was a news kiosk beyond the steps going down, and she went to it and glanced at a row of magazines. Then she went back to the steps, saw the green jacket walking toward her, hurried down to the trains, paid for a ticket, and followed signs to Mairie des Lilacs. She walked to the end of the platform.
The platform was well lighted, and she searched each of the faces of the people waiting for the next train. A woman holding a baby sat on one of the benches; at the end of the same bench sat an old man bent over a large shopping bag. A train was approaching, pushing the air in front of it, causing pieces of paper to float up off the track and onto the platform.
On the back of the green jacket were the words “Detroit Tigers.” She searched the faces around her. “Peder?” she said in a frightened whisper that only she could hear. “I can't see you!”
Then came a crescendoing noise that seemed to explode over the platform as the train entered the station. There was a scream, louder even than the whoosh of air and the brakes on the train. The man in the green jacket bounced off the side of the first car, his body thrown down onto the platform with enough force to roll him over several times before he came to a rest against the legs of a bench. What Astrid would remember was a single frozen image as if taken from a horror film: terror in the man's face, his arms splayed out in a wild attempt to save himself.
The old man with the shopping bag took Astrid's arm and rushed her past the crowds getting off the train and gathering around the
man, who lay flat and unmoving. They went up the street, where Peder threw the bag into a refuse container and jammed the beret he had been wearing into his pocket.
T
wo banks of lights flooded over Llewellyn's self-portrait. The painting had been taken from its frame then fastened to an easel, but not haphazardly; Nigel Jones had put a level against it to be certain the painted surface was perfectly perpendicular. Beneath the painting he taped a narrow strip of colors that ranged through yellow, red, blue, and black, “target colors,” Jones said without explanation. The camera was a Sinar 8 x 10 viewcamera. The film was Ektachrome 64T, a professional quality positive-transparency film, loaded into sheet-film holders. Twenty of them. The four lights were 3200K tungsten lamps in aluminum reflectors. The camera was mounted on a thick-legged tripod, adjusted so the center of the 650mm Schneider lens was aimed precisely at the center of the painting, a half inch below the tip of Cézanne's nose. Jones had squared the film plane with the level, making certain it was also perpendicular. These precautions, he was told, would avoid a condition of parallax, an avoidance essential to taking a photograph without distortion. Then he disappeared under a black shroud and studied the image projected onto the ground glass, choosing Cezanne's eyes and the hair in his beard as points of focus.
Jones's expertise with a camera had been, until this assignment, about equal to that of the average owner of a 35mm camera who took family pictures on the weekend. A crash course in studio photography had been provided by Gabriel Levine, one of London's top portrait photographers.