about anyone with a badge.”
“He didn’t trust her,” Tom conceded. “Not at fi rst, anyway.
But later, when she followed through on what she’d prom-
ised, when she fought in my corner with the FBI, he realized
she was different.”
“They didn’t have an ass like that, for a start,” said Besson
appreciatively.
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
1 3 7
Tom smiled, but he was only half listening. He’d thought it
must have been a coincidence when Besson had mentioned
Jennifer’s name. Even when he’d seen her walk through the
door from his vantage point behind the two-way mirror in
the office, he’d not quite believed it. But it was her. Here in
Paris.
It was a strange feeling. First the sharp pinch of recogni-
tion as someone he’d relegated to the back of his mind sud-
denly surged to the fore of his consciousness. Then the spark
of a broken connection being mended, of all those dangers
they had faced and overcome together being jolted into vivid
relief. Finally the uncomfortable blend of attraction and an-
ger that had settled in his stomach like oil floating on water.
Attraction, as he gazed at her soft, inviting lips and at her
long toned legs and reminded himself of those few sultry
summer nights together almost a year ago now. Anger that
the defenses he had so carefully erected to partition away his
memories of that time had been so easily washed away. Now
certainly wasn’t the time to get distracted.
“What did she want?” he asked.
“Help identifying a couple of forgeries. Some case she’s
working on over in the States where there are four paintings
but only two certificates of authenticity.”
“Let me guess—” Tom smiled “—the certificates are with
the forgeries.”
“Exactly. And no surprise either that they’ve turned up in
Japan.” A pause. “You going to let her know, or shall I?
“She’s smart. She’ll work it out,” said Tom. “Anything
else?”
“She wanted to know what this was—” He held out the
piece of paper that she had given him. Tom glanced at the
number written on it and then locked eyes with Besson, his
concern overriding his surprise.
“But that’s . . .”
“I know.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That I’d look into it.”
“Well, hold off for now,” Tom instructed him. “We’ve got
enough to deal with without involving the FBI too.” Tom’s
1 3 8 j a m e s
t w i n i n g
words sounded hopeful even to him. The FBI were clearly
already involved, even if Jennifer didn’t know it yet. He
needed to make sure it stayed that way as long as possible.
Until this was over, at least.
“By the way, the fake Gauguin she just had me look at—
it’s one of Rafael’s.”
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure. There aren’t many people who can knock out
something that good.”
“You can,” Tom reminded him. “Or could, if you hadn’t
retired.”
“Except, according to you, I haven’t.” Besson gave a wry
smile as he picked up Rafael’s forged version of the
Ma-
donna of the Yarnwinder
that Tom had carefully placed be-
tween them.
“Well? Will you do it?”
“Of course I’ll do it. It just seems a bit of a shame.”
“It’s an insurance policy.”
“What do you want done?”
“Use your imagination.”
“And this?” Besson picked up the porcelain obelisk Tom
had unwrapped and placed on the kitchen table.
“A present from Rafael before he died.”
“Mind if I borrow it?”
“What for?” Tom asked with a frown.
“Inspiration. It’s given me an idea.”
“You can’t paint what you like. It just needs to be con-
vincing.”
“Maybe I’d be more convincing if I knew what it was
for.”
“Do you really want to know?”
“You’re right,” Besson grinned. “It’s better if I don’t. It’s
for you. That’s all I need to know.”
“No,” Tom shook his head, suddenly serious. “It’s not for
me. It’s for Rafael. It’s for Eva.”
C H A P T E R T W E N T Y- S E V E N
QUAI DE JEMMAPES, 10TH ARRONDISSEMENT, PARIS
21st April— 12:01 p.m.
The room was empty. Milo was alone, standing to one
side of the window so he couldn’t be seen from the street
below, his hands folded behind his back. It was busy outside,
a narrow boat chugging merrily along the Canal St. Martin,
cyclists and lunchtime joggers negotiating the cobbled tow-
path, tourists ambling obediently wherever their guidebooks
led them. Over the rooftops, he could just about make out
Sacré Coeur’s white-breasted dome at the top of Mont-
martre. Every time the sun reappeared from behind the
clouds it winked at him like a distant lighthouse.
It was a while since he had been in Paris. Although part of
him felt glad to be back, he was well aware of the risks posed
by his return. Still, he’d always known that, if he was going
to pull this job off, he’d have to be here in person. And by the
time they realized what had happened, he’d be long gone.
There was a knock. He adjusted his tie and pulled half an
inch of shirt cuff out from under each sleeve, then turned to
face the door.
“Come.”
Djoulou strode into the room, a gun tucked into his waist-
band.
1 4 0 j a m e s
t w i n i n g
“She’s here, sir.”
“Well, show her in, Captain,” he barked impatiently.
Djoulou stepped aside and pulled Eva into the room. She
was blindfolded and walked unsteadily, one arm in front of
her, the other gripping Djoulou’s sleeve. He stopped her in
the middle of the room, under the bare wires that dangled
down from the central light fitting like loose veins.
“Some guy called Axel’s just showed up too.”
“Tech support. Help him get set up in the basement,” Milo
ordered. “We’ll have a run- through to night.”
With a nod, Djoulou slipped out of the room. Milo let a
few moments pass before advancing toward Eva, the herring-
bone parquet betraying each step with an arthritic creak.
“What do you want?” she demanded, turning her head to
the noise. Milo remained silent until he was standing directly
in front of her.
“You can take this off now,” he said, carefully removing
her silver bracelet and flinging it across the room as if it was
scorching his fi ngers.
“Is this really necessary?” she insisted.
“Absolutely,” he smiled, placing his hands around her waist.
Without prompting, she lifted her arms around his neck and
pulled him to her, her mouth parting as she felt for his tongue,
her breathing quickening. They stumbled to the wall, him
pressing into her, his hand squeezing her right breast and then
gliding between her legs and making her moan.
He suddenly snatched his head back, the blood welling
from his lip.
“That’s for having your performing monkeys force a rag
down my throat.” She snatched her blindfold off and licked the
palm of her hand as if she was trying to get rid of a bad taste.
“You said it had to look convincing,” he reminded her,
angrily sucking the blood from where she’d bitten him.
“You said Kirk would be too busy chasing the
Yarnwinder
to even know that Rafael was dead.” Her dark eyes fl ashed
defiantly. “Wasn’t that the whole point of nailing that stink-
ing cat to the wall?”
“Well, now he’s looking for you instead. That works just as
well.”
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
1 4 1
She glared at him for a few seconds before conceding with
a small shrug of the shoulders that he had a point.
“He thinks that message Rafael left on the well means that
you killed him.”
“Of course he thinks I killed him. He wants to think I
killed him. It suits him to think I killed him. But you and I
both know I didn’t.”
There was a pause. Their eyes met, his resolute, hers ques-
tioning.
“What happened between you two?”
“Nothing. It’s just that neither of us like losing.”
“Did you know Rafael had been over to London to see him
a few weeks ago?” She went to the mirror and carefully ap-
plied some lipstick, pressing her lips together and then wiping
away a small smear with her little fi nger.
“He must have slipped across when he made that last trip
to Paris,” Milo guessed. “So much for agreeing not to step
out of line in case something happened to you.”
“It was a wasted journey,” she reassured him, smoothing
her hair back under her white Alice band. “Tom was away.”
“So they never actually spoke?”
“Apparently not.”
“So how does he know?” he probed, looking into her
eyes.
“Know what?”
“Everything. He turned up at the Louvre yesterday with
Dumas and tipped them off.”
“That’s impossible,” she said disbelievingly.
“Somebody must have talked. If not Rafael, who?”
“Somebody talked?” she shot back angrily. “A year’s worth
of planning gone like that because somebody talked?” She
snapped her fingers to emphasize her point.
“Don’t worry, nothing’s changed.” Milo’s tone was fi rm.
“They laughed him out of the building. If anything, we can
turn this to our advantage. After all, we’ve still got one big
factor in our favor. One button we can press to keep Kirk
exactly where we want him.”
“And what’s that?” Her bottom lip was jutting out in a way
that suggested she thought this extremely unlikely.
1 4 2 j a m e s
t w i n i n g
“You.” He stooped to kiss her on the forehead, as if trying
to smooth her frown away. “Now help me with this.”
He stepped over to the wooden crate on the floor next to the
fi replace, picked up two screwdrivers and handed one to her.
Together they levered the crate open one corner at a time.
Reaching in, he carefully scooped out the packing straw and
placed it in the grate, gradually revealing a woman gazing at-
tentively, some might even say fearfully, at the naked child
perched on her lap. The child’s attention, however, was almost
entirely consumed by the small wooden rod that he was clutch-
ing with both hands. A yarnwinder.
“When did it get here?” she asked excitedly.
“This morning.”
“Did you know that Rafael made a copy before he died. He
hid it in his workshop. Tom found it last night.”
“Rafael is proving to be far more full of surprises now he’s
dead than when he was alive,” Milo said in a tone that hov-
ered somewhere between admiration and anger. “But Kirk’s
welcome to it. It’s of no use to anyone. Have you got a light?”
She reached into her back pocket and threw him a box of
matches. He struck one and then held the flame against the
packing straw in the fireplace. It caught light almost immedi-
ately, hissing and spitting as its orange glow snaked across
the grate.
“Get the shutters!” he ordered. “You never know who’s
watching.”
As soon as the room was dark, Milo carefully lifted the
painted wooden panel out and angled it so that the fl ickering
firelight skated across its varnished surface.
“This is how a work like this should be seen . . .” He spoke
in an uncharacteristically gentle, almost reverential tone.
“Electricity robs a painting of its mystery by revealing it in
all its deliberate artifi ce. But a naked fl ame softens it, mask-
ing the small blemishes and worry lines of time and infusing
it with a strange, dancing glow that makes the skin blush and
eyes sparkle until they almost seem alive. Magic is best done
in the dark.”
“We could keep it,” she suggested, the fire giving her dark
hair and eyes a lustrous sheen as she gazed at it hungrily.
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
1 4 3
“Too risky.” Milo’s tone hardened once more. “The plan
stands.”
With a final, almost wistful look, he turned to the fi replace
and carefully placed the painting in the grate. For a few sec-
onds it sat there, untouched, the flames seeming to part re-
spectfully around it like a retreating tide. But then, inexorably,
they rolled back in, clawing with increasing insistence at the
infant’s naked flesh and tearing at the delicate folds of the
Madonna’s robe.
The painted surface darkened, smoke rising off its surface
in narrow coils until a sudden surge of heat engulfed the two
figures, their skin blistering and the wooden panel buckling
forward, as if in agony, before splitting. Slowly the fi gures
melted away completely, until all that remained was the faint
outline of a few of the rocks in the background and the oc-
casional tongue of green fire as the paint burned off.
“Did you see the color of the flames?” Milo asked thought-
fully as he prodded the blackened panel with a poker, break-
ing it up into smaller pieces that settled on to the embers with
a splutter of sparks. “That’s from the pigments in the paint
they used to use.”
“Then at least we know it wasn’t a copy.” She smiled.
“It’s a bit like the old witch trials,” Milo agreed, suddenly