thing reassuringly authentic and informal about Drouot. Not
that it was lacking in history, its salesrooms having operated
on the site since 1852. It was just that, because the auction
facilities were rented by over seventy different firms of vari-
ous shapes and sizes, there was a raw, entrepreneurial energy
about it that was missing from the faceless conglomerates
that had evolved out of the traditional auction aristocracy.
There was no need for ties or below-the-knee hemlines
here, no canapés or white-gloved waiters, no photographs for
the society pages of whoever happened to be sitting in the
front row. This place was about the deal—the bid, the raise,
the strike of the gavel, the ready camaraderie of the chase,
whatever the outcome. People were even allowed to smoke,
their nervous anticipation snaking from quivering lips and
compressed fingers and mushrooming across the ceiling for
all to see, fanning the tense atmosphere still further. It was
the way things used to be, until the suits had taken over.
There seemed to be a peculiar, nervous energy to night,
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
2 9 1
especially. The theft of the
Mona Lisa
was on everyone’s
lips, Archie catching fragments of scattered conversations as
he elbowed his way through the crowds, people speculating
about the painting’s likely fate, the identity of whoever had
ordered the theft and what the authorities could and should
have done differently. Interestingly, their reactions seemed to
be a mixture of distress and excitement, as if the people here,
considering themselves to be members of the extended art
fraternity, felt somehow implicated in the previous after-
noon’s bloody events.
“I thought Tajan were based over in the Eighth?” Archie
struggled to make himself heard over the noise.
“They are,” Besson confirmed, “But they still use Drouot
for some of their smaller sales. There’s always lots of
people . . .” He paused, looking up uncertainly at the signs
fixed to the wall ahead. “What room did I say?”
“Two.” Archie pointed to his left.
The auction was already well underway and Archie and
Besson slipped in unnoticed, eventually finding a space in
the far corner that gave them a good vantage point from
which to observe the rest of the audience.
“Recognize anyone?” Archie asked as the lots steadily
climbed through the high fi fties.
“Lots of people.” Besson nodded. “But no one who stands
out.
Ah, finalement
.”
“Lot number sixty-two,” the auctioneer declaimed, the
polka-dot handkerchief in his breast pocket fluttering as he
rocked excitedly backward and forward on his heels, his
hands gripping the sides of the podium. “A superb fi rst edi-
tion of Volume One of the
Déscription de L’Egypte,
the de-
finitive study of ancient and modern Egypt completed by the
group of scientists and artists who accompanied Napoleon
Bonaparte on his Egyptian Campaign.”
To the left of him, a white-gloved attendant held up a
leather- bound book open at the engraved title page and dis-
played it to the room.
“Hitler may have had a Napoleon complex, but Napoleon
had an Egyptian complex,” Besson whispered. “He was ob-
sessed by the place. The full set runs to twenty- three volumes
2 9 2 j a m e s
t w i n i n g
of text, engravings and maps. It even came in a specially
made display case.”
“This partic ular volume, printed in 1809, is the sole sur-
viving volume from the set of the
Déscription de L’Egypte
owned by Doctor Francesco Antonmarchi, Napoleon
Bonaparte’s personal physician during his final years in ex-
ile,” the auctioneer continued. “I’d like to start the bidding at
twenty thousand euro.” A man in the front row waggled his
catalog. “Thank you, sir.”
Immediately two other people joined the chase, the price
rising in three thousand euro increments as the auctioneer
circled between them, one of the bidders coming back im-
mediately each time with a higher offer, another refl ecting
carefully before nodding. At thirty-five thousand, the price
stalled, the initiative resting with a short round man with a
waxed mustache who smiled nervously as the ivory hammer
was raised over the ebony gavel.
At the last possible moment, a telephone bidder came in,
offering forty thousand. The mustachioed man offered
forty- fi ve and then, with a sad shake of his head, declined at
fi fty.
“Going once to the bidder on the phone,” the auctioneer
warned. “Come now, ladies and gentlemen, this is a unique
opportunity to acquire a defi nitive work with a unique pedi-
gree. Going twice . . .”
“Seventy thousand,” someone called from the back of the
room, the audience giving a low murmur of surprise as they
turned in their seats toward the voice. Archie strained for-
ward and looked along the line of people standing to his
right, but whoever had spoken was masked by those standing
around him.
“Seventy thousand! Thank you, sir.” The auctioneer
beamed. “Seventy thousand at the back of the room. Now, do
I hear seventy-five?” He eyed the woman on the phone to the
telephone bidder hopefully, but without any real conviction.
“She’ll drop out,” Besson predicted. “Fifty thousand is
right at the top end. Seventy is crazy.”
Studiously avoiding any form of eye contact or sudden
gestures, the woman spoke urgently into the phone, then lis-
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
2 9 3
tened for a few moments before looking up and giving a fi rm
shake of her head.
“It’s with the gentleman at the back of the room at seventy
thousand . . .” announced the auctioneer. “Going once . . .
going twice . . .” A final pause. “Sold to Monsieur Ledoux
for seventy thousand euros.” He cracked the hammer down.
“Thank you, sir. It’s an honor to have you here.”
“Ledoux?” As the crowd broke up with a muted round of
applause to reveal an elderly-looking man in bright red
glasses and a black suit, shirt and tie, Archie turned to his
companion. “Is he famous or something?”
“Paul Ledoux.” Besson frowned. “The Director of the
Louvre. What’s he doing here?”
“More to the point, why does he want that book?”
C H A P T E R S I X T Y- S E V E N
QUAI DE JEMMAPES, 10TH ARRONDISSEMENT, PARIS
23rd April— 6:21 p.m.
She’d only been doing about ten miles an hour when she
hit the barrier post, but from the noise and the damage,
you’d have thought it had been sixty. A large bite had been
taken out of the front left wing, the headlight exploding in a
fine spray of glass. As for the post itself, it had almost been
uprooted, the paving slabs around its base lifting like loose
earth around the roots of a tree blown over in a storm. It was
sobering to think that these formed the only protective bar-
rier between the road and the canal below.
Jennifer drove off before the concierge of the neighboring
building, alerted by the noise, was able to make good on her
angry threat to call the police. She wasn’t sure if Ferrat would
have issued a description of her yet, but she didn’t want to wait
around and fi nd out.
There was no sign of Tom by the time she’d circled back to
where they had parked before and she guessed he’d managed
to make his way inside. The minutes ticked by, Jennifer ner-
vously running her thumbnail through the small gap in her
front teeth and intermittently sweeping the binoculars across
each window and the men still loading up the back of the van
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
2 9 5
as she waited. She checked her watch again. Still only fi ve
minutes gone.
She hated sitting here like this, a spectator, unable to help
or do anything. But rather here than inside a police cell,
meekly awaiting her fate. She had that to thank Tom for at
least. Whatever her previous relationship with him, this girl
Eva was clearly in danger. And if Eva wasn’t here, then maybe
there was something in this book Archie had gone to look at
that would help stop Milo and get her back.
She scanned the entrance to the building again and no-
ticed that the two guards had suddenly taken up defensive
positions at either end of the van, their hands shoved tellingly
under their jackets. The other two men, meanwhile, had
emerged on to the street carrying a crate which they gingerly
lifted into the back of the van and then covered with blan-
kets. A crate just like the two she’d brought over from the
States. A crate designed to house a small painting.
She sat up with a start. If Tom’s theory was right, these
could be the forged versions of the
Mona Lisa
that Milo had
commissioned Rafael to paint. Perhaps he had been storing
them in this building along with the rest of his equipment? If
so, they’d just been handed a gilt-edged opportunity to abort
Milo’s plan at birth. She went to dial Tom before suddenly
realizing with a grimace that the noise might give him away.
Whatever she was going to do, she was going to have to do it
alone.
She stepped out of the car and opened the trunk. There was
a tool kit in a side pocket, and she grabbed a screwdriver and
a heavy wrench, slipping them inside her coat. Turning, she
jogged over the bridge just as they were bringing out a sec-
ond, identically sized crate which they also placed in the back
of the van before plunging back inside. Slowing her pace, she
approached the rear of the van and nodded at the guard sta-
tioned there. He eyed her suspiciously as she walked past.
The second guard was standing in front of the hood, smok-
ing, his jacket falling open to reveal the gun tucked in the
waistband of his black jeans.
“Cigarette?” she asked hopefully, positioning herself out
2 9 6 j a m e s
t w i n i n g
of sight of the first guard and gesturing with her hands.
Looking her up and down with a smile, he nodded, reaching
into his back pocket. His eyes only dipped for a second, but
that was all the time Jennifer needed to lash him across the
side of the head with the wrench. With a grunt he fell for-
ward into her outstretched arms. She lowered him gently to
the street and then rolled him out of sight as best she could
under the front of the van.
Pausing to check that no one had seen or heard her, she
sidled around to the driver’s side door. It was open and she
slipped inside, crouching in the footwell to hide from the fi rst
guard who she could see quite clearly now through the open
rear doors. The other two men came out, placed a third crate
in the van and then slammed the doors shut.
Sensing her opportunity, she forced the screwdriver into
the ignition slot and then turned it hard. The mechanism
snapped with a muffled crack. Then she clambered into the
back of the van, making her way over to the three crates.
Easing the tip of the screwdriver under the lid, she quickly
prized the first one open and scooped out the packing straw.
There she was. The
Mona Lisa
. Strangely incongruous in
these somber, airless surroundings, with only packing boxes,
crates and the thick stench of diesel for company, but un-
mistakably her. The strange thing was that, even though she
knew it was a forgery, it was still infused with an almost
spiritual quality that gave it a strange, magnetic draw. It felt
somehow wrong to mutilate that delicately sensuous face and
soft smile. And yet she knew that was exactly what she had
to do.
She raised the screwdriver above her head like a dagger,
but before she could plunge it into the wooden panel, the rear
doors suddenly snapped open.
“I knew I recognized you,” the first guard snarled, a cold
look carved on his face as he grabbed her wrist. “You’re the
same dumb bitch who just crashed your car opposite.”
“Raoul’s out cold,” one of the other men yelled from the
front of the vehicle.
“Check the van,” the guard ordered.
The other man climbed into the driver’s seat.
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
2 9 7
“She’s taken out the ignition.”
“Start it from the engine bay,” the guard called back, haul-
ing Jennifer out and pinning her to the inside of the open
door. “I want this shipment out of here ASAP.”
The driver popped the hood and then jumped down. The
guard pressed his gun to her temple.
“Start talking.”
Jennifer stared back at him defiantly. With a thin smile, he
smacked the butt of the gun into the side of her head, open-
ing up a deep gash on her temple and knocking her to the
ground.
“You’ve got three seconds,” he warned her, hauling her to
her feet and cocking the gun. “One . . . Two . . .”
A shot suddenly rang out and with a choked gurgle he col-