lapsed to the ground. She looked up. Tom was standing in the
doorway, his gun smoking.
“Get over here,” Tom shouted, taking cover as one of the
other men, sheltering behind the vehicle, returned fi re. The
engine suddenly burst into life, the hood slamming down
with a clang.
“Come on,” he urged her. She hesitated and then shook her
head. She couldn’t let the paintings get away.
Gripping the screwdriver between her teeth, she dropped
to the ground and then crawled under the van. Locating the
petrol tank, she stabbed it repeatedly, the oily liquid spraying
on to her arms and the street.
The two remaining men, still firing at Tom, clambered
through the passenger door, stamped on the accelerator
and roared away, the vehicle lurching as they ran over the
guard still lying on the street where Jennifer had left him,
snapping his neck.
“Are you okay?” Tom ran over and pulled her to her feet.
Although he sounded angry, he looked worried by the sight
of the gash on her head. “What the hell were you doing? We
agreed ten minutes.”
“You were right.” She leaped over to the guard and felt for
his matches. “Milo has had copies made. Three of them. And
they’re in the back of that van.”
She lit a match and dropped it on to the shimmering trail
2 9 8 j a m e s
t w i n i n g
of petrol from the ruptured tank. It caught light immediately,
a pale blue flame, barely visible in the daylight, that raced
along the street in pursuit of the speeding van.
They watched, fascinated, as it skipped over the cobble-
stones, flushing orange in one place and yellow in another,
irresistibly drawing closer and closer until, with a fi nal effort,
it leaped toward the underside of the vehicle. For a moment
nothing happened. Then there was a flash and a sudden ex-
plosion as a fireball ripped through the van. It veered to the
left and smashed into a tree, its tires on fire, the roof bent
back like a half-opened tin can, thick smoke spilling out of
every orifi ce.
Through the open rear doors, Jennifer could just about
make out the outline of the three crates, burning like bodies
on a funeral pyre.
C H A P T E R S I X T Y- E I G H T
QUAI DE JEMMAPES, 10TH ARRONDISSEMENT, PARIS
23rd April— 7:27 p.m.
The heat had scorched the tree trunk and formed a semi-
circular dent of shriveled leaves in the otherwise luxuri-
antly green branches directly above the van’s blackened
carcass.
“What’s the damage?” Ferrat turned from the smoldering
wreckage that the fire brigade were still hosing down with
foam, and strode back toward the main crime scene.
“Another six bodies.”
Gallas had been foisted on him by the chief of police, sup-
posedly to help, but in reality reporting back on his every
movement. That was half the problem. Everyone was so busy
covering their own backsides that no one was actually focus-
ing on solving the case. No one apart from him.
“Six? I was told four—two on the street and two in the
van.”
“They just found another two inside the building. Looks
like they let them bleed to death rather than risk taking them
to a doctor.”
“I can’t turn around on this case without tripping over an-
other stiff,” Ferrat sighed.
“If it’s any consolation, they’ve been dead a day or so.”
3 0 0 j a m e s
t w i n i n g
“It’s no consolation whatsoever,” Ferrat snapped. “What
about the prints we found over at Levy’s?”
“The lab just called. Browne was defi nitely there.”
“But no match with the blood found in the tunnel yet?”
Ferrat checked.
“No, we’re still waiting to see if the FBI get a hit. Our guys
could tell one of them was a woman. They just couldn’t say
who.”
“Let’s see what the Americans come up with. One thing’s
for sure: if Browne was at Levy’s, the man seen with her
must have been Kirk.”
“But why would they have killed Levy?”
“Maybe she was in on it with them?” Ferrat speculated.
“Maybe they had nothing to do with it in the first place. To be
honest, none of this makes any sense anymore.” He gave a
wild sweep of his arm to emphasize his confusion.
Gallas’s radio crackled as a voice broke into their conver-
sation.
“Sir, there’s a witness here who swears she saw Browne
here, too.”
Ferrat grabbed Gallas’s radio off him before he could an-
swer.
“What have you got?”
“I’m with the concierge of one of the blocks across the
canal from you,” Ferrat and Gallas looked over to where a
uniformed officer was signaling to them. “She’s adamant
that someone matching Browne’s description collided with
this barrier post and then drove off.” He pointed to a post
that had been ripped out of the pavement.
“I don’t suppose there’s any chance she took a note of what
car this woman was driving?” Ferrat asked hopefully.
“Make, model and registration number.” The offi cer tri-
umphantly waved a small piece of paper.
“We’ve held off as long as we can,” Ferrat sighed. “It’s go-
ing to annoy our American friends, but let’s get a photo and
description of Browne out to the media. Someone must have
seen her. There can’t be that many black female FBI agents
running around Paris.”
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
3 0 1
“What do you think she was doing here?” asked Gallas as
Ferrat handed him his radio back.
“I think we’ve walked into a war and she’s part of it.” Fer-
rat pinched the top of his nose wearily. “Milo and Kirk both
have something the other wants and they’re going to carry on
killing until one of them wins. And we just get to pick up the
pieces.”
C H A P T E R S I X T Y- N I N E
FONTAINEBLEAU, FRANCE
23rd April— 8:43 p.m.
It was a fi fty-minute drive from the underground garage
where Tom and Jennifer had met Archie and swapped cars
to Ledoux’s house in Fontainebleau.
“So there was no sign of Milo?” Archie asked, still grin-
ning at Tom’s description of how Jennifer had destroyed the
forged paintings.
“No,” said Tom. “But I found this.”
“Eva?” Archie guessed, as Tom held up a silver bangle.
“I gave this to her when . . .” His voice tailed off as his
eyes caught Jennifer’s. “She was wearing this when Milo’s
men captured her in Seville. It was in one of the rooms.”
“What about you?” Jennifer asked Archie in a brittle tone.
“Did you see who bought the book?”
With a nod, Archie told them about Ledoux and his last-
minute knock-out bid.
“According to Henri, Ledoux never usually shows his face
at Drouot,” Archie continued. “Rough crowd, apparently. He
must have really wanted it.”
“You’ve met Ledoux,” Tom turned to Jennifer. “What do
you think he’s up to?”
“Levy told us there was some deal to make sure the
Mona
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
3 0 3
Lisa
never made it up to the lab for testing,” she reminded
them. “Ledoux must have known that the painting was a fake.
Maybe they were working together.”
“That still doesn’t explain how he knew about the book,”
Archie pointed out.
“Where is Henri?” Tom frowned. “Didn’t he want to come
along to night?”
“He had to finish up the alterations you wanted to Rafael’s
Yarnwinder
forgery,” Archie explained. “By the way, he said
to tell you that J-P’s been transferred to some hospital over in
the thirteenth. Pity something.”
“Pitié Salpêtrière.” Tom nodded, recognizing the name.
“Is he okay?”
“Yeah, he’s fine. But he’s not going anywhere. Bars on the
window and armed guards outside in case he tries to make a
run for it. Right, this is it.” Archie turned down a narrow lane
and killed the engine.
“Where?” Tom peered into the gloom. There seemed to be
nothing but fields and the occasional winking light from a
distant farm.
“Back there,” Archie pointed.
“Be quicker if I go alone. You okay to wait here?” Tom
asked Jennifer hopefully.
“Sure.” She shrugged. “Just make it quick.”
Tom nodded. At least Jennifer no longer felt the need to
police his every move. Perhaps the afternoon’s events had
gone some way to restoring her shattered trust. Either that or
the headache from where she had been hit earlier was worse
than she was letting on.
“I’ll be in and out,” he reassured her.
Tom made his way back to the main road. It was a windy
night, a constant breeze bending the long grass sprouting
along the verge, the occasional wild gust changing the pitch
of the leaves fluttering above from a low whisper to a deep
roar.
Ledoux lived in a rambling old mill house at the end of a
winding gravel drive. A narrow river flanked the property,
the rusting metal fixtures protruding over the silted mill race
showing where the water wheel would once have hung.
3 0 4 j a m e s
t w i n i n g
Scaling the ivy-clad wall, Tom kept to the shadows of the
trees that lined the riverbank until he reached the house.
Then, keeping below the windows, he ghosted his way past
the front door to the far corner and made his way around to
the back.
Ledoux was sitting at a desk in a room Tom took to be his
office, although it had clearly once served as the library. The
shelves that lined each wall had been stripped of books and
filled instead with a large and varied collection of modern
sculpture. Lighting installed at the rear of each shelf illumi-
nated the different shapes and colors of the sculptures, some
fl uid and flowing and made of colored glass or stone, others
sharp and twisted and made from untreated steel or recycled
plastic.
Peering through the gap between the fastened shutters, he
could see that Ledoux was wearing a purple silk dressing
gown over an open-necked black shirt, his red glasses pushed
up on to his head as he bent forward over an open book. He
was holding some sort of steel instrument in his hand, and
appeared to be gingerly probing the inside cover.
The sound of a bell echoed through the house. Ledoux
glanced up in annoyance, but ignored it. A few moments
later the bell rang again and this time, swearing under his
breath, he stood up, his dressing gown momentarily gaping
open and revealing that he had removed his trousers but not
his socks. He closed the book and placed it carefully in the
desk drawer which he then locked, slipping the key into his
pocket.
As soon as he’d left the room, Tom slipped the blade of his
knife through the gap in the shutters and lifted the latch. The
window eased open noiselessly and he lowered himself in.
The rudimentary lock on the desk drawer only resisted him
for a few seconds. Inside, together with an unpaid parking
ticket and a men’s contact magazine, was a thick book em-
bossed in gold. Pausing only to confi rm that it was the right
one, he slipped it into his backpack and then padded over to
the open window.
As he climbed out, the sound of raised voices echoed
through the house’s low corridors toward him. He paused.
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
3 0 5
There was something about one of these voices that sounded
very familiar. And very unexpected.
He stepped back inside and crept over to the doorway.
Through the crack, he could see Ledoux standing in the main
hallway, arguing feverishly in French with another man. Ar-
guing with Milo.
“We’d agreed you wouldn’t come here,” Ledoux said an-
grily, toying with the tassels on his dressing-gown belt. “They
could be watching me. It’s too risky.”
“We’d agreed that the painting was to be moved up to the
laboratory,” Milo retorted, his voice measured and calm.
“That didn’t happen either.”
“I’ve told you, that wasn’t my fault.” Ledoux’s dressing
gown slipped open and he fumbled with the belt as he fas-
tened it around himself again. “Everything was set up ex-
actly as we’d agreed. But Kirk made them panic. I couldn’t
stop them moving it without implicating myself. As soon as
the convoy left, I sent you the combination to the box it was
being transported in. I did what I could.”
“Of course you did.” Milo tilted his head slightly to one
side. “If you hadn’t, you’d already be dead. That’s not why
I’m here.”
“It’s not?”
“The forgeries have been destroyed.”
“Destroyed . . . How?” Ledoux stammered.
“That’s irrelevant.” Tom couldn’t help himself from smil-
ing at the black rage that momentarily engulfed Milo’s face.
“Your forgeries are nothing to do with me,” Ledoux in-
sisted nervously, trying to preempt any move by Milo to
implicate him. “All I wanted was the painting out of the mu-
seum. That’s what I paid you for.”
“And you got what you wanted,” Milo countered icily.
“Well done.” He stepped forward until they were almost touch-