his very fingertips, his cheery face and ready smile having
faded into a hollow-cheeked, haunted gaze that reeked of
defeat and self-pity. Knowing Dumas, probably the only rea-
son he hadn’t let himself plummet into the abyss yet was his
sheer bloody-mindedness. He was alive to deny others the
satisfaction of seeing him dead, rather than because he
wanted it for himself. He was alive in order to be diffi cult.
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
1 0 7
“Are you here to buy me a drink?” His tone was suddenly
hopeful, although the rest of his face remained anchored in
an unsmiling scowl, his bushy mustache twitching occasion-
ally like a flag in a limp breeze.
“Your coffee.” The barman had appeared at their table.
“They’re both for him,” Tom gestured.
The man deposited the cups on the table with a clatter,
spilling half of one into the saucer.
“Sugar’s on the table,” he grunted as he shuffl ed away.
Dumas wiped the back of his hand across his large, blunt
nose, his eyes bloodshot and puffy from lack of sleep. The
knot on his nondescript tie was pinched and greasy, suggest-
ing that he simply loosened it every night to take it off so he
wouldn’t have to re- tie it the following morning. Tom real-
ized then that he had probably been wearing the same clothes
for days. Maybe even weeks.
The silence was broken by the pinball machine behind them
suddenly flaring into life to the accompaniment of the theme
tune from
Star Trek: The Next Generation.
Dumas turned and
glared balefully at the man who had just started a game.
“Milo’s out,” Tom said over the machine’s loud pinging
and the occasional slap of the player’s hands on the controls.
“He cut a deal with the Chinese.”
Dumas’s eyes snapped back to Tom’s, then he looked down
with a shrug.
“Pas mon problème.”
“He’s planning a job.”
“He’s always planning a job.”
“Not one like this.”
There was a pause.
“Like what?”
The corners of Tom’s mouth twitched. He’d known Dumas
wouldn’t be able to help himself. Whatever might have hap-
pened, twenty-five years in the French secret service were
not as easily shaken off as his personal hygiene.
“The Louvre. The
Mona Lisa
.”
“Pfff.” A disbelieving smile crossed Dumas’s face. “That’s
impossible.”
1 0 8 j a m e s
t w i n i n g
“It’s been done before.”
“In 1911,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“Things were a bit different back then. Now . . . He’d never
dare.”
“Welcome to the Enterprise,”
the disembodied voice of
Captain Jean- Luc Picard trumpeted from the machine be-
hind them.
“Really?” Tom said, placing the memory stick that Rafael
had left him on the table between them.
“What’s this?”
“A download of the Louvre’s entire security set-up. Blue-
prints. Codes. Guard rotas. Wiring grids. Surveillance sys-
tems.”
“Sensors are picking up a distortion in the space-time
continuum,”
the pinball machine announced as the steel ball
struck one of the targets.
“Where did you . . . ?”
“Rafael hid it for me the night he died.”
“Rafael’s dead?” Dumas seemed to be shaken sober by
this news. “How?”
“Milo.”
“You’re sure?”
“He’s had Rafael working on a forged
Mona Lisa
. I think
he’s planning to swap it for the original. And he’s got Eva,
too.”
“Eva. Your Eva?”
Tom nodded, feeling his jaw tense with silent anger as he
explained what had happened in Rafael’s workshop, although
he left out what she had said about his father and how he’d
died. That was for no one else but him. That was for when he
found her.
“You went back to Spain? Aren’t they looking for you?”
“They are now.” Tom grimaced, Gillez’s betrayal still
rankling. “Getting in was no problem, but I had to look up
some people I know down in Gibraltar to organize an exit.
They’re more used to moving cigarettes and whiskey, but
they made some calls. I landed two hours ago.”
“And came to see me? Why?”
“Milo used to work for you. You know what he’s capable
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
1 0 9
of. I need to stop him. I need to get Eva back before he kills
her.”
Dumas emptied one of the coffee cups and lit a fresh ciga-
rette, a hint of life creeping back into his ashen cheeks.
“What’s the plan?”
“We warn the Louvre. Tell them what Milo is planning.
Set a trap. He doesn’t know that I’m on to him. He’ll walk
right into it.”
“Make it so!”
the machine chimed.
“And Eva?”
“He’ll have her close. I’ll find her. We just need Milo out
of the picture fi rst.”
Dumas gave a deep sigh and then a firm shake of his head.
“
Je suis désolé, Felix
. But this has got nothing to do with
me. Not anymore.”
“You’re a government agent, J-P. It’s got everything to do
with you.”
“Ex-government agent. They fired me, remember?”
“They only suspended you. This could help get you back
in.”
“I don’t want to get back in. I just want to be left alone.”
“She’ll die, J-P. She’ll die and Milo will walk away with
the
Mona Lisa
. And we’re the only ones who can stop him.”
A pause, as Dumas considered this.
“What do you want from me?” he asked eventually.
“An introduction. Philippe Troussard.”
“Troussard?” He grimaced. “Why do you want to see that
imbécile
?”
“He’s the Louvre’s new head of security. Got appointed
last year.”
“We were at ENA together,” Dumas conceded.
“I know,” Tom smiled.
“I slept with his girlfriend and came top of the year.” Du-
mas grinned for the first time since Tom had arrived. “I’m
not sure which annoyed him more.”
“That was a long time ago. You could still get us in to see
him.”
“
Peut-être
. But it would take time. I need to shave fi rst. I
need to get some sleep.”
1 1 0 j a m e s
t w i n i n g
“Today,” Tom said firmly, levering him out of his chair by
the elbow. “You’ll get us in today.”
Behind them the man swore and smacked the glass angrily
as the ball disappeared down one of the outlane drains.
“Someday, you’ll learn to play pinball
,” the machine
cackled.
C H A P T E R T W E N T Y- O N E
RIAD AL SINAN, MARRAKECH, MOROCCO
20th April— 2:47 p.m.
The air was still and heavy, the washing, strung along the
neighboring rooftops like a brightly colored kite’s tail,
barely twitching in the dusty heat. In the middle of the court-
yard below, scattered rose petals drifted lazily across the
surface of a shallow pond. At its center stood a graceful
white marble fountain, the delicate piano play of water echo-
ing off the terracotta-colored walls.
A late lunch had been prepared in the shadow of a drooping
orange tree, condensation coating a jug of iced lemon water.
Pulling a chair up to the table, Milo pushed the food out of the
way and snorted the tramlines of coke that had been prepared
for him on a silver dish. When he was done, he wet his fi nger
and drew it deliberately over the dish’s mirrored surface, rub-
bing the crumbs across his top gum, pink and fl eshy.
For a moment he was still, his green eyes glittering unblink-
ingly as if in a trance, his tongue flickering across his teeth
like a lizard perched on a rock, sniffing the air. The dappled
sunlight played across his angular face, somber pools forming
under the sharp ridge of his cheekbones and darkening his al-
ready tanned complexion, his curly black hair, slicked back
with some sort of oil, glinting like a beetle’s shell.
1 1 2 j a m e s
t w i n i n g
He allowed his mind to roam beyond the city’s rooftops,
across the cobalt sea, to France’s gold-tipped shores. At his
side, his right hand twitched unconsciously, like a gunfi ghter
poised to draw, his long elegant fingers drumming against
the folds of his suit trousers. He was close now. Soon there
would be no going back.
The muffled echo of someone knocking at the front door
broke the spell. Laurent Djoulou was ushered in, his boots
squelching on the diamond- patterned fl oor. Milo rose with a
broad smile, casting a skeletal shadow on the ground. The
two men hugged and then kissed each other on each cheek,
before Djoulou broke away and snapped his right hand into a
salute.
“It’s good to see you again,
mon col o nel
.”
Tall and solid, his deep- set dark brown eyes blazed behind
sunglasses, a ridge of perspiring muscle bulging at the base
of his bald skull. Three parallel scars marked both of his
fleshy cheeks like freshly turned furrows in a fi eld— tribal
markings from his village. He wore a black T-shirt and jeans
that both looked a size too small for him. Part of his left ear
was missing.
“There’s no need to salute.” Milo dismissed the gesture
with a generous wave of his hand. “Not anymore.”
He spoke in French, his words chosen carefully and deliv-
ered with the precision and force of a sniper’s bullet.
“I prefer the old ways, sir,” Djoulou countered in a rhyth-
mic West African lilt. “It avoids any confusion.”
“Always the soldier.” Milo nodded slowly, and then saluted.
“It’s good to have you back,
Capitaine
.”
“I’m glad you asked me.”
“Bored with Africa?”
Djoulou puffed out his cheeks.
“Things have changed since you left. Less money. More
charity workers. It’s hard to find an honest fi ght anymore.”
“After this job, you won’t need to,” Milo reassured him
with a smile. “Where are the men?”
“At the port loading up the gear. They’ll meet us there to-
morrow.”
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
1 1 3
“I’ve got another piece of cargo I need shipped. Human.”
“Cargo you want lost overboard on the way?” Djoulou
guessed with a smile.
“It’s the forger’s daughter. We picked her up yesterday in
Seville. I want her kept alive.”
“You think she could still be useful?”
“She’s insurance. Kirk was with her.”
Djoulou frowned.
“Where have I heard that name before?”
Milo gave a rueful smile and poured himself a glass of
lemon water.
“From me. He used to work for the CIA. Industrial espio-
nage. When they tried to bury the whole program, Kirk in-
cluded, the French secret service helped him escape in return
for a few favors. Dumas put us together for a few jobs after I
quit the Legion. It didn’t last.”
“Is he going to be a problem?”
“By the time he works out what we’re up to, it’ll be too
late,” Milo said with a dismissive shrug.
“If he was with the girl in Seville, how did he get away?”
“Excellent question,
Capitaine
.” Milo nodded approvingly.
“And one that you can perhaps help me answer.”
He beckoned for Djoulou to follow him to the fountain at
the center of the courtyard. There, previously hidden by the
orange-glazed plant pots and green shrubbery, were two men
lying gagged and bound against the rim of the shallow pool.
“It seems that Kirk, despite being unarmed and outnum-
bered, managed to overpower and kill one of my men, shoot
Collins here, and then escape.” He pressed his heel into the
bullet wound in Collins’s shoulder, triggering a muffl ed
scream.
“You should have sent me,” Djoulou growled. “I’d have
killed him before all this started.”
“Kirk’s not to be killed,” Milo insisted quickly. “There’s a
debt between us, a life. I intend to honor it.”
“What do you want to do with them?” Djoulou nodded
impassively at the two men staring up at them with fearful,
teary- eyed gazes.
1 1 4 j a m e s
t w i n i n g
Milo crouched down, gently stroked each man’s head, then
stood up.
“These two you
can
lose overboard.”
Stepping forward, he rolled both men into the pond with
the tip of his shoe. They landed facedown with a splash, their
hands still taped behind their back, their ankles strapped. Im-
mediately they kicked out, trying to wrestle their heads above
the surface, the water boiling and crashing over the pond’s
edges like an angry sea striking a rocky cliff. Djoulou and
Milo stepped back so as not to get wet. A minute passed,
maybe more. The struggling slowly subsided, the water cool-
ing and flattening as if a fierce wind had dropped, until the
only sound was the fountain’s gentle chime, rose petals weav-
ing through the men’s drifting hair.
“I prefer the old ways too,” Milo observed pensively.
“When everything had its price. Even failure.”
C H A P T E R T W E N T Y- T W O
TWO HUNDRED MILES EAST OF NEWFOUNDLAND,
CANADA