“Magnificent view, isn’t it?”
Milo stopped about five feet in front of him, both his hands
thrust deep inside his black overcoat. It had been a long time
since Tom had seen him. He looked a little thinner in the face,
the lines more pronounced around the corners of his eyes and
across his forehead, perhaps, his hair slightly thinner. But
otherwise he had changed startlingly little. His green eyes
still glittered like ice in the sun, his bloodless lips drawn into
a thin, almost mocking smile, his shoulders confi dently thrown
back. Certainly he’d made no attempt to disguise himself, but
then, why should he? His wasn’t the face gracing news bulle-
tins around the world.
“It’s only from up here that you can really appreciate Par-
is’s unique symmetry, the Champs Elysées on one side run-
ning like a swollen river toward the Arche de Triomphe du
Carousel, the Avenue de la Grande Armée on the other
marching up toward the Arche de la Défense.”
Tom caught a glimpse of Milo’s watch as he stretched his
arm to the horizon, a rare 1950s IWC Mark 11, originally de-
signed for and issued to the British Air Force. Milo’s model,
Tom noted, was the “No T” variant, hastily discontinued by
the British authorities after they realized that its luminescent
Radium dial markings were slightly radioactive. Although
unusual, it seemed to Tom, at least, an entirely appropriate
choice, combining Milo’s precision, elegance and refi nement
with an undercurrent of danger and violence; maybe even
death.
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
2 4 3
“Shall we cut the small talk?” Tom sniffed dismissively.
“What do you expect me to say? Congratulations? Fine,
well done,” Milo snapped. “Breaking into a moving van was a
new one, even to me. Now, give me my painting back.”
“You can have it, as soon as I have Eva.”
“Quintavalle’s little bitch?” Milo laughed incredulously.
“Is that what you want?”
“I want proof of life,” Tom demanded. “Now.”
Milo gave a grudging nod and reached for his phone.
“Put her on,” he ordered, before passing the handset to
Tom, eyebrows raised expectantly.
“Eva? Eva, is that you?”
“Tom?” She sounded weak and frightened and Tom’s ini-
tial elation at the sound of her voice was short-lived.
“Are you okay? Has he hurt you?”
“Help me, Tom. Do what he says and help me,” her voice
collapsed into a sob.
Milo snatched the phone back and cut the call.
“As you can hear, she’s alive, although I wouldn’t go so far
as to say well.”
Tom could feel the rage building in his chest.
“If you’ve hurt her, I’ll—”
“I don’t know why you’re even bothering,” Milo inter-
rupted him with a dismissive laugh. “I heard you ran out on
her. Broke her little heart. You think she’d be here for you if
I’d locked you away instead?”
“I made a promise,” Tom countered, Milo’s jibe hitting
home. He had let her down before—that’s why he wouldn’t
do it again. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Probably not.”
“What’s she to you, anyway?” Tom challenged him.
“An insurance policy. All I want is the
Mona Lisa
.”
“What for? The theft is in the news. That’s all you need to
sell the forged paintings Rafael made for you, isn’t it?”
Milo nodded slowly, his expression confirming Tom and
Archie’s guesswork about what he was planning.
“Yes. But there’s only one way to ensure that their authen-
ticity is never put in doubt.”
2 4 4 j a m e s
t w i n i n g
“You need to destroy the original,” Tom breathed in sud-
den realization.
“The type of clients I have lined up will not tolerate any
sort of uncertainty,” Milo confirmed. “Especially given the
prices they are paying. I have to be certain that the Louvre’s
Mona Lisa
will never go on display again.”
“Well, you can roll it up and smoke it for all I care,” Tom
snapped. “All I want is Eva.”
“In that case there’s a place I know. An industrial park. We
could do the exchange there to night.”
“Sure,” Tom laughed. “Somewhere quiet and out of the
way where you can pick me off nice and easy in the dark. No,
we’re going to do this in daylight and out in the open. Do you
know the Voie Georges Pompidou?”
“On the river? Of course.” Milo nodded.
“We’ll make the exchange there. Midday. I’d tell you to
come alone, but I know you won’t. Just remember that we can
both come out of this with what we want. No one needs to get
hurt. There doesn’t always have to be a winner.”
“Agreed.” Milo stretched out his arm. “I haven’t forgotten
that there’s a debt of honor between us, a blood debt. You
have nothing to fear from me.”
Tom, reluctantly, shook his hand.
Unseen by either of them on the other side of the platform,
a uniformed elevator attendant spoke into his phone.
“Hello. Are you dealing with the Louvre case? Good. I
need you to get a message to Commissaire Ferrat. Tell him I
think I’ve spotted one of the men you’re looking for.”
C H A P T E R F I F T Y- F I V E
CENTRAL POLICE STATION, 1ST ARRONDISSEMENT, PARIS
23rd April— 10:31 a.m.
Looking around, it struck Jennifer that, no matter the coun-
try or culture, all holding cells looked pretty much the
same. A narrow room—window optional. A steel door com-
plete with viewing/feeding slot. A bed with a thin, fl ame-
proof mattress. The unrelenting glare of an overhead light
that was never turned off. Even the choice of colors had con-
solidated around different shades of blue or green, generally
held to have a pacifying effect on the cell’s potentially un-
stable or violent inmates.
Not that she was of a mind to cause trouble, despite Ferrat’s
heavy-handed treatment. Not yet, at least. As soon as the Em-
bassy representative turned up and word got back to the FBI,
he’d have to back off and go through the proper channels. She
had nothing to hide and had done nothing wrong. He was the
one who would have to learn to play by the rules.
She’d spent her time in the cell thinking about Tom and
the events of the last forty-eight hours. The more she’d
learned about what had really unfolded at the Louvre and in
that tunnel, the more she’d been struck by the uneasy
sensation that Tom had probably been telling the truth about
what had driven him to steal the
Mona Lisa
. It didn’t excuse
2 4 6 j a m e s
t w i n i n g
what he had done, of course, or the way he had used her to
get to the painting, but it did at least explain why he had done
it and who had really been responsible for the killings. Given
all that, she couldn’t help but feel guilty at having rolled over
on him quite so quickly. The fact that he’d known she
would—had counted on it, in fact—only made it worse.
Her head flicked to the door as the viewing slot snapped
open and momentarily framed a set of brown eyes and the
bridge of a nose. It slammed shut as the tinkle of keys and
creak of the lock announced that someone was there to see
her. Finally.
Her relief was short-lived. Far from despatching the cav-
alry, the Embassy seemed to have sent a boy scout. The
ginger-haired man standing nervously in front of her, thin
face covered in acne scars and razor burn, looked as if he was
barely out of college. He jumped as the door clanged behind
him, glancing fearfully at the lock as it crunched shut, then at
the single naked bulb overhead. She guessed this was proba-
bly his first time inside a cell. Great.
“Er . . . Agent Browne?” he stuttered, fidgeting with the
strap of his briefcase. “Bill Kendrick. I’m from the Em-
bassy.”
“You certainly took your time.”
“We’re . . . er . . . a little short-staffed at the moment.” She
took this as an explanation for both his tardiness and his ob-
vious inexperience.
“You’ve come to get me out?”
“It’s not that easy.” He gave her a weak smile.
“All it takes is a phone call. It doesn’t get much easier than
that.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Not to me.” She gave an exasperated shake of her head.
“The theft is all over the press. You can’t switch on the TV
or pick up a paper without reading about it,” he sounded al-
most excited. “Today’s
American Voice
is going to claim that
you and Kirk were lovers. There are photos apparently.”
“Lewis has a personal grudge against me. The photos
prove nothing. I already explained all this to Ferrat, but he
doesn’t want to listen. He just wants to be able to show his
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
2 4 7
bosses that he’s making progress. Well, he’s wasting his time.
There are protocols in place, for God’s sake. And none of
them involve serving FBI agents being arrested and held on a
hunch.”
Kendrick gave an awkward cough before answering.
“The State Department is coming under pressure from the
French government to cooperate with their investigation.
Wire taps, stop- and- search powers, satellite imagery. Need-
less to say, this also extends to the questioning, and if neces-
sary detainment, of U.S. nationals.”
“Have you even spoken to the FBI?” Jennifer was growing
tired of Kendrick’s evasive manner. “Ask for Director Green.
He can vouch for me.”
“Unfortunately I have not been able to reach FBI Director
Green.”
He gave an apologetic shrug, his eyes flicking to the ground
as if steeling himself to say something. Jennifer suddenly
had the sickening realization that Kendrick hadn’t been sent
to secure her release at all. He’d been sent to give her a mes-
sage. Green, ever the politician, was distancing himself,
scenting a scandal.
“I spoke with Deputy Director Travis instead. According
to him, not only have you been on vacation since the eve ning
of April twenty-first, but your approach to the Louvre wasn’t
sanctioned by the FBI.”
“I had orders to talk to Director Green and Director Green
only,” she protested, the cell beginning to spin around her.
“He wasn’t available, so I left a message. What did they ex-
pect me to do—stand by and do nothing?”
“From the FBI’s perspective, therefore,” Kendrick contin-
ued as if he hadn’t heard her, “you have been in Paris as a
private citizen since the eve ning of April twenty-fi rst. Your
intervention with the Louvre was, as a consequence, a per-
sonal matter of which they had no prior knowledge or
involvement.”
“They’re cutting me loose?” Jennifer’s voice was disbe-
lieving.
“The Embassy will of course provide you with all the help
and assistance we would give any U.S. national implicated in
2 4 8 j a m e s
t w i n i n g
a police investigation,” he intoned. From the obvious comfort
he took in legalistic phrasing, Jennifer guessed that he was a
law school grad. “However, given the high-profile and politi-
cally sensitive nature of the case, it would not be appropriate
for us or the French authorities to extend any preferential
treatment to you. I suggest you continue to cooperate fully
with the investigation. Hopefully this will all be resolved
soon.”
“
Hopefully
?” Jennifer nailed him with a withering look.
“They sent you all the way here to tell me to click my heels
and think of home?” She gave a despairing shake of her
head. “Anything else I should know?”
Kendrick paused, and then let his mask momentarily slip.
“Look, I probably shouldn’t say this, but the French want
to see some heads rolling and, from the case Ferrat is build-
ing, it looks like you’re going to be first on the scaffold. So if
I were you, I’d get a good attorney. You’re going to need
one.”
C H A P T E R F I F T Y- S I X
VOIE GEORGES POMPIDOU, PARIS
23rd April— 11:59 a.m.
He’s here!” Dumas pointed at the Range Rover turning
on to the ramp that led down to the Quai, the sound of
its tires on the cobblestones echoing across the water.
“Who’s with him?” Tom didn’t want to get too close until
he knew what he was dealing with.
“One car on the bridge. Another one parked on the road
above,” Archie radioed back from his vantage point on the
Allée des Cygnes, a finger-shaped island in the middle of the
river opposite Tom. “Two men in each.”
“That sounds about right.” Tom gave a rueful smile. Milo
had never been shy of loading the dice in his favor. One time
in Macau, quite literally. “Okay, I’m going in.”
Tom edged the throttle forward and pointed the speedboat
toward a gap between two house boats where the car had
stopped, the powerful engine spluttering its disdain at the low
revs. He neared the bank and slipped back into neutral, the
Seine rolling gently underneath him as he waited. The front
passenger door opened and Milo got out.
“New toy?” he called.