“We’re all in this together now,” Tom said fi rmly. “Jenni-
fer’s got as much at stake as the rest of us. Maybe even more.”
Besson glanced at Archie as if trying to enlist some sup-
port, but Archie, beyond raising his eyebrows, refused to be
drawn.
“Where are they keeping Jean- Pierre?”
“The DST are questioning him,” Tom answered. “I’m
guessing they’ll move him to a hospital once they’ve fi n-
ished.”
“He’s hurt?”
“Took two in the leg,” Tom said with a rueful nod.
“He’ll live.” Archie shrugged impatiently. “Where’s the
painting?”
“Back here.”
Shuffling awkwardly, Besson led them through to the
small office next to his lab. Stopping in front of the large
mirror, he pressed against the bottom right-hand corner of its
frame. With a click it swung open, revealing a small hidden
room.
“There,” Besson smiled, pointing at the painting, safely
housed within a plastic case.
“Two-way glass,” Tom explained to Jennifer, placing his
hand on the other side of the mirror so she could see it. “This
is where I was hiding the day you first came here.”
“It’s come in useful over the years.” Besson gave a know-
ing smile. “There’s even a way out through to the neighbor-
ing building. Luckily I’ve never had to use it. Anyway, we’d
better leave her to rest.” He closed the mirror again. “She’s
had a busy day.”
“You’ve been running some more tests?” Jennifer asked.
“Tom told you what I found?”
2 6 6 j a m e s
t w i n i n g
“He said you think it’s a forgery.” She didn’t sound con-
vinced.
“I date it to the late eighteenth, early nineteenth century,”
he confirmed. “But what’s really strange is that when
La Jo-
conde
was recovered after the Valfierno theft, many people
didn’t believe they’d got the real one back. So the Louvre re-
leased a set of X-rays to prove it was the original. And they
showed underpainting.”
“That’s impossible,” Archie snorted. “How could their
X-rays have underpainting and ours none?”
“The Louvre could have faked them,” Tom speculated,
finding himself gravitating inexorably toward the most logi-
cal explanation, even though he knew it was unlikely. “Maybe
they knew even then that they had a forgery.”
“They know something,” Besson agreed, turning to Jen-
nifer. “Do you remember what I told you about your Gauguin
and Chagall paintings? About how the copies were almost
too good, that they must have been painted from the origi-
nal?”
“Of course.”
“Well, I could say the same about Rafael’s copy of the
Mona Lisa
. It’s identical to the one Tom stole. He must have
had access to it.”
“Then somebody owes us an explanation.” Tom was grim
faced, realizing now that there had perhaps been more to
Dumas’s and his frosty reception at the Louvre the other day
than personal grievances and their lack of evidence. “And I
think I know exactly who to ask.”
“I’m coming with you,” Jennifer insisted. “From now on,
you don’t make a move without me being there too.” Tom
nodded in agreement. That seemed a fair price to pay for the
risk she was taking. Besides, chances were he could do with
the help.
“What about Milo?” asked Archie.
“When he realizes we gave him one of his own forgeries,
he’ll be back in touch,” Tom guessed. “Only next time he’ll
want to run proper tests before handing Eva over.”
“You mean
if
he realizes we gave him a forgery,” Besson
corrected him. “I meant to tell you: Rafael added under-
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
2 6 7
painting. In my opinion, the copy Milo’s got now is better
than the Louvre forgery we took. He might think he’s got the
real thing and just disappear.”
“Then we need to find him,” Tom said to Archie. “We
need to find him before he decides he has what he came for
and that he doesn’t need Eva anymore.”
J. EDGAR HOOVER BUILDING, WASHINGTON, D.C.
23rd April— 9:05 a.m.
You’re saying she walked out of there voluntarily?” Green
eyed the conference phone warily.
“She was handcuffed, yes, but she walked past at least ten
of my men without even trying to call for help,” Ferrat’s
voice squawked back. “And she didn’t walk. She ran to the
car.”
“It doesn’t make any sense.” Green banged his hand down
on the table in frustration.
“With respect, Director Green, it does make sense if she
was working with Kirk,” Ferrat suggested gently.
“With respect, Commissioner Ferrat, I’ve worked with
Browne. Sure, she’s stepped out of line a few times; she tends
to act on instinct without always thinking the implications
through. But then so do a lot of good agents and, believe me,
Browne’s a good agent. It sure don’t make her a criminal.”
“Then why did she run?” Ferrat pointed out. “Why didn’t
she just stay and cooperate?”
“Maybe she felt like she had no choice. Maybe you should
have listened to her side of the story before arresting her.”
“Maybe you should let me decide how to run my own
case,” Ferrat shot back.
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
2 6 9
There was a pause and Green looked first at Deputy Direc-
tor Travis and then at Jim Stone, who’d been dispatched from
the State Department to listen in on this call. One rolled his
eyes, the other shrugged. Like him, they just wanted all this
to go away and go away fast.
“What do you want from us, Commissioner Ferrat?”
Green’s tone was brisk.
“Access to your DNA database. Several members of the
gang were hit in the tunnel. We have blood and tissue sam-
ples. You may have a match.”
“Anything else?”
“Browne’s file. Fingerprints. Known acquaintances. Details
of her past involvement with Kirk.”
“Absolutely no way,” Green snorted. “You want help ID-
ing your unsubs, fi ne. But we don’t just hand over top secret
information . . .”
“Hold on, Jack—” Stone pressed the mute key. “We have
to play ball on this one. The French are calling in all their
favors.”
“I didn’t think they had any left in this town.”
“We don’t have a choice,” Stone insisted unblinkingly.
“’Allo?” Ferrat called.
With a heavy sigh, Green took the phone off mute.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you,” Ferrat acknowledged. “Believe me, I also
hope Agent Browne had nothing to do with this terrible busi-
ness. I hope, but I have to be sure.”
“I hate the French,” Travis swore as soon as Ferrat had
rung off.
“The good news is, they hate you right back,” Stone reas-
sured him with a smile.
“This wouldn’t have happened if we’d cut her some slack,”
Green observed angrily. “Instead we cut her adrift. What
choice did we leave her but to strike out for shore on her
own?”
“We couldn’t let the actions of one agent compromise the
Bureau or the Administration,” Stone reminded him. “She’s
already caused us enough problems with the Press. Imagine
if Lewis got wind that you were trying to fix things with the
2 7 0 j a m e s
t w i n i n g
French. You need to play this one by the book or it’ll come
back and bite us all in the ass.”
“She could take us all down with her if it turns out she’s
involved and we’ve tried to help her out,” Travis agreed.
“And even if she’s not involved, what the hell’s she doing
playing Bonnie and Clyde? I know it’s none of my business,
but think what a potential donor would say?”
“You’re damn right it’s none of your business!” Green shot
back angrily. “I don’t give a shit about donors. Right now, I
just want her found. Get the boys up in Langley involved if
you need to. I don’t care anymore. If she really is in on this
with Kirk then, believe me, I’ll gift-wrap her and hand her
over to the French myself. But if there’s something else going
on, an angle that she’s working, I want to know about it.”
C H A P T E R S I X T Y- O N E
RUE DE CHARONNE, 11TH ARRONDISSEMENT, PARIS
23rd April— 3:10 p.m.
Tom paused in Cécile Levy’s bedroom, the noise of the
shower and a thin gauze of steam creeping around the
edges of the bathroom door. Her dress lay coiled on the fl oor
where she had stepped out of it. The bed was unmade, the
Mona Lisa
smiling suggestively from the cover of the French
newspaper casually thrown there.
The open wardrobe door revealed two shelves of handbags,
each carefully wrapped in their protective cloth pouches. Be-
neath them was row upon row of shoe boxes, each with a Po-
laroid photo of their contents taped to the front. Above them,
her clothes hung in the plastic wrappers supplied by the dry
cleaners.
In contrast to this deliberate orderliness, the random para-
phernalia of Cécile Levy’s everyday life lay scattered next to
the bed—cigarettes, sunglasses, keys, lipstick, mobile phone,
a half-empty bottle of gin, a small photo of her with her par-
ents taken on a beach when she was still a kid.
Tom wondered which was a better reflection of Levy’s cur-
rent state of mind—the wardrobe’s cold military precision,
or the emotional chaos of her bedside table? Perhaps both?
2 7 2 j a m e s
t w i n i n g
Maybe the cigarettes and alcohol allowed her to bridge the
two, or more likely, veer from one to the other.
He pocketed her phone to stop her trying to use it and then
padded over to the bathroom door and slowly edged it open.
As the steam billowed out, Tom was just about able to make
out Levy’s shape on the other side of the shower curtain. He
reached in and turned the sink’s hot tap on. A few moments
later, she swore and hurriedly shut off the water. Pulling the
curtain back, she reached for a towel and then screamed as
she caught sight of Tom holding one out for her. She clenched
the curtain against herself fearfully.
“Get out,” Tom ordered, throwing her the towel. “We need
to talk.”
A few minutes later Levy emerged nervously into the sit-
ting room where Tom and Jennifer were waiting for her. She
was wearing the same dress Tom had seen lying on the fl oor
earlier and her glistening hair was yet again held back off her
face by a pair of sunglasses. Tom sensed that she drew some
small comfort from the thought that at any moment she could
lower them on to her face and cover her eyes.
“What do you want?” She stood with her back pressed to
the wall, her eyes flicking hopefully toward the front door.
She had brought her cigarettes with her and she lit one now,
the trembling in her hand subsiding as she took a fi rst, long
drag. She wore no make- up, giving her face a slightly washed
out, blank look.
“You remember Agent Browne?” He nodded toward Jen-
nifer.
“So, Ferrat was right.” She gave a tight-lipped, almost bit-
ter, smile. “You tricked us.”
“I was the one who was tricked,” Jennifer corrected her,
glaring at Tom.
“We can do the hows and the whys later,” Tom insisted.
“Right now, we just want some information.”
“What sort of information?” she asked in a sullen, defen-
sive tone.
“About the
Mona Lisa
. About what the Louvre really
knows.”
“Ferrat’s told us nothing.”
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
2 7 3
“I’m not talking about the case, I’m talking about the
painting being a forgery. I’m talking about how, all these
years, the Louvre has been passing off a nineteenth-century
reproduction as an original da Vinci.”
“What are you talking about?” She lit another cigarette
from the half-finished butt of the previous one, her hand
trembling.
“We’ve analyzed the painting. We know.”
“Is this another one of your tricks?” She laughed, although
Tom detected a forced, perhaps even hysterical edge to her
voice.
“Prussian blue in a fifteenth-century painting?” he chal-
lenged her. “Now that’s a neat trick if you can pull it off.”
“Clumsy restoration work.” She shrugged, pinching her
tongue as if she’d got a hair caught there. “People weren’t
always as careful as we are now.”
“Oh, you’re very careful now, aren’t you? Careful to make
sure that no one else gets close enough to examine the paint-
ing properly.”
“You’re imagining things,” she tutted dismissively, open-
ing the window that led out on to the narrow balcony, her pink
nostrils blanching slightly as she took a deep breath.
“Am I? Was I imagining the X-ray of the
Mona Lisa
that
the Louvre released in 1914? Or did I just make up the one
that we took the other day with no underpainting at all.”
This time she said nothing, her back to them as she faced
the open window, teeth biting into her bottom lip, the ciga-
rette wavering slightly in her pale fi ngers.
“Because I think that the Louvre has known all along that