pensive.
“What do you mean?”
“Suspected witches used to be weighed down with stones
and then thrown into the river. If they drowned, they would
be declared innocent, but if they survived they would be
killed anyway for being in league with the devil.”
“What does that have to do with the
Yarnwinder
?” she
asked with a frown.
“Sometimes, you can only find out if something really is
what it claims to be by destroying it.”
C H A P T E R T W E N T Y- E I G H T
FIRST FLOOR, DENON WING, MUSÉE DU LOUVRE, PARIS
21st April— 4:23 p.m.
Tom had long wondered whether he would ever really be
able to experience a museum in the same way as every-
one else. It wasn’t that he couldn’t appreciate what was on
display; his years as a thief had, if anything, honed the pas-
sion for art that his parents had instilled in him from child-
hood. But no matter how hard he tried to concentrate, he was
only half-looking at what was on show. The art retreated into
the background of his consciousness like expensive wallpa-
per, becoming an almost incidental part of his visit, rather
than its main purpose.
Instead, he found his attention irresistibly drawn to study-
ing the security set- up—the number of guards, the location
of the cameras and alarm panels, the positioning of the doors
and windows, the thickness of the emergency shutters. These,
not the skill with which an artist had captured the delicate
play of light across silk or carved the smooth muscle tone of
a flexed shoulder blade, were the elements that resonated as
he walked around. And every detail, however small, was
stored meticulously away.
It was only when he found himself standing opposite the
Mona Lisa
, that he realized he had no real recollection of
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
1 4 5
anything else he’d seen along the way. Not that he had needed
to concentrate on where he was going, the storm surge of tour-
ists having carried him like driftwood toward her—up the
stairs, right at the
Winged Victory of Samothrace
, through
the first three rooms of early Italian paintings, right again
into the Grande Gallerie, and then, about halfway down, a
final right turn into the newly refurbished Salle des Etats.
He stood toward the rear of the room, Veronese’s magnifi -
cent
Wedding Feast at Cana
towering colorfully behind him,
the
Mona Lisa
hanging opposite him on a specially erected
freestanding wall. A semi-circular wooden barrier held the
crowd back at a respectful distance, the number of people
ebbing and flowing according to the arrival and departure
times of the phalanx of coaches parked outside. They gazed
up in awe, a congregation of all faiths momentarily drawn to
this high altar, their fleeting silence marking the completion
of an artistic Hajj. A devout few even circled back around be-
hind it for another look, their rapt faces orbiting like planets
around a sun.
Tom looked on silently, struck, as ever, by how small the
Mona Lisa
was—only about thirty inches high and twenty
across. She seemed distant too, maybe even a little lonely.
Alone on the wall, sheltering behind her bulletproof glass
and cracked varnish, she gazed down at him with a sad, al-
most lost smile.
“You shouldn’t have come here.” A female voice suddenly
broke into his thoughts.
Tom looked around and recognized Cécile Levy at his side.
He wondered how long she had been following and watching
him. Probably since the security cameras picked him up at
the entrance.
“Has Troussard sent you to do his dirty work?” he replied
in French.
“I volunteered. I convinced him you’d leave quietly if I
asked you.”
Tom considered her for a few moments. She seemed so
fragile to him, her face made up like a china doll’s, her deli-
cate ballerina- style shoes perfectly coordinated with the white
piping on her classic Chanel jacket. Her hand was buried in
1 4 6 j a m e s
t w i n i n g
her jacket pocket, the rectangular outline of the cigarette
packet visible through the material. Tom wondered what she
would give to be able to light up right there and then.
“How can you both be so sure that Dumas and I are wrong
about what Milo is planning?” he asked.
“We’re sure that Dumas has a drink problem. If we’re go-
ing to follow something up, we need solid evidence from
credible
sources,” she explained, her tone firm and yet faintly
apologetic. “You provided neither.”
“The only evidence you’ll get is when you come in one day
and find a blank space on the wall,” Tom observed coldly.
“Troussard’s no diplomat, but he knows what he’s doing,”
she insisted, although there was again the hint of an apology
in her voice, which Tom took as a tacit admission that she too
found Troussard difficult to deal with. “Besides we took the
precaution of alerting the Museum Director. He’s approved
some additional security measures.”
“Then you’ve got nothing to worry about, have you?”
There was a long pause, punctuated only by the sound of
rubber soles squeaking on the wooden floor and the occa-
sional bark of the guards as they spotted a camera or some-
one chewing gum.
“Perhaps you should walk me to the exit,” she suggested
tentatively. He didn’t argue. He’d seen everything he
needed to.
They walked back out into the Grande Gallerie and toward
the staircase. Tom was lost in his own thoughts, but as the
seconds ticked past he sensed Levy growing increasingly
uncomfortable at his side. He guessed that, being of a ner-
vous disposition anyway, she found the silence rather disqui-
eting. Sure enough, a few paces later she spoke up in an
artificially casual tone.
“You know Léonard took her everywhere with him. They
say that he never really fi nished her.”
“Whoever she was?”
“Vasari was pretty clear she was Lisa del Giocondo.” She
seemed relieved that he’d taken the bait and that the awkward
moment had passed. “You don’t agree?”
“Who knows?” He shrugged. “I’ve heard it said that she’s
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
1 4 7
Isabella of Aragon. Others have claimed that
she
is actually a
he
—da Vinci himself, or one of his lovers.”
“She does look slightly androgynous,” Levy conceded.
“But then the fashion at the time was to pluck out your eye-
brows.”
“To be honest, I’m not sure it really matters,” he sighed.
“
Mona Lisa
,
La Joconde
—it’s just a name. It doesn’t change
what it is.”
“You don’t actually like it, do you?” Her tone conveyed a
mixture of curiosity and disbelief.
“It’s not a question of not liking it. It’s just that sometimes
I wonder if she isn’t the Paris Hilton of the art world. You
know, famous for being famous. The problem is that the
painting comes with so much baggage that it’s impossible to
appreciate it objectively anymore. In fact, I’m not even sure
you can like or dislike it. It just is.”
“You have to be careful what you say around here,” she
said with a grin as they made their way down the main stair-
case into the Greek sculpture hall. Her smile suited her, Tom
thought, certainly more than the nervous, thin-lipped gri-
mace that she usually deployed. “Léonard is local royalty.”
“I know, they used to guillotine you for less.” Tom
laughed.
“I don’t think people fully appreciate how far ahead of his
time he was.” Her voice grew more animated and confi dent.
“The use of foreshortening and perspective to create an illu-
sion of depth. The sensuous curves and subtle
sfumato
shifts
of tone and color. The sense of balance and harmony. Hope-
fully we will change all that soon.”
“What do you mean?”
“Didn’t you see the signs?”
He shook his head.
“The painting’s warped a little over the past few years.
We’ve asked the Center for Research and Restoration to sta-
bilize it and we’re taking the opportunity to run a full set of
forensic tests at the same time. The first it’s ever had.”
“Ever?” He found this rather unlikely.
“Well, we’ve run some basic analyzes before, of course—
X-rays and the like. But nothing like this. The Louvre has
1 4 8 j a m e s
t w i n i n g
always been too worried about it being damaged. But with
modern forensic techniques we can safely strip away Léon-
ard’s genius for all to see and understand. It’s being taken off
display tomorrow and moved up to the restoration rooms.”
They had arrived back in the main entrance area under the
glass pyramid, its soaring walls amplifying the persistent
drone of eager feet and agitated voices to a frenzied roar.
“Would I be wasting my time if I told you not to come
back?” she asked, her tone more hopeful than anything.
“Probably.”
“Troussard thinks you’re a troublemaker. My own view is
that you’re someone who attracts trouble rather than causes
it. Either way, neither of us really want you in our museum.
Today it’s me walking you out. The next time, believe me,
Troussard will take great pleasure in having you thrown
out.”
“I understand.” Tom shook her outstretched hand. It felt
brittle and cold, like porcelain. “You won’t see me
here
again.”
“Good.” She had reverted to the grimace again. “And don’t
worry. As long as she’s here, she’s in safe hands.”
Tom nodded but he wasn’t listening, already reaching for
his phone as he headed for the exit.
“Archie, it’s Tom. The painting’s being moved tomorrow
night. Up to the restoration rooms on the second fl oor.”
“That’s it then. That’s when Milo’s going to make his
move.” Archie’s conclusion echoed Tom’s own thoughts. “It
don’t leave us much time.”
“You need to find us a way in. A way of getting close. Call
in whatever favors you can.”
“I’ll get us in. The question is, how will you get us out?”
“I’m still working on that. Just see what you can do. It’s
possible that— Archie, I’ll call you back.”
Tom killed the call, his eyes narrowing as he assured him-
self that the face he had just seen ahead of him, heading for
the exit, was indeed who he thought it was. At least this time
he had been half expecting to see it. And maybe, just maybe,
it had given him the glimmering of an idea.
He glanced around and saw a Polish tourist struggling to
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
1 4 9
make himself understood at the information desk. A slim
leather briefcase was at his feet, resting against the base of
the counter. Tom went to stand next to the man and, picking
his moment, reached down, grabbed the briefcase and walked
briskly toward the exit.
Luckily, it wasn’t monogrammed. Just as well, or it
would have made it that much harder for Tom to pass it off
as his own.
C H A P T E R T W E N T Y- N I N E
COUR NAPOLÉON, MUSÉE DU LOUVRE, PARIS
21st April— 4:49 p.m.
Jennifer stepped out into the Cour Napoléon and paused.
The day seemed caught in a curious in- between moment,
pale ribbons of light unfurling through occasional breaks in
the dark clouds that glowered overhead, creating a strange
half light that gave people’s faces a ghoulish quality. The
pyramid hovered silently behind her, the Louvre’s scrolling
façade broken into a thousand triangular pieces where the
glass panels had carved it into neat equilateral sections, the
stone pale and drawn.
She set off toward the Champs Elysées, but stopped almost
immediately. A man was sitting on the edge of one of the
granite fountains in front of her. He had a leather briefcase
between his legs and was studying a piece of paper intently,
looking up every so often at the buildings around him.
“Tom?” His name was out before she even realized it.
Tom looked up, a guilty look washing across his face as he
shoved whatever he was reading inside his briefcase. For a
moment she almost wondered if he’d been waiting for her,
whether this was some sort of elaborate set- up. But there was
no way he could have known she was in Paris, let alone at the
Louvre. Besides, what was there to set up?
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
1 5 1
“What are you doing here?” she exclaimed. He looked
well, handsome even, with those striking blue eyes and con-
fident, controlled manner. More handsome than she remem-
bered him.
“What are
you
doing here?” he asked, rising to his feet.
Rather than curiosity, there was the hint of an accusation to
Tom’s voice, as if she was somehow intruding. She was sud-
denly glad that she’d been too surprised to try and hug or kiss
him hello.
“I’m on a case. They needed me over here for a few days.”