“Definitely more comfortable than staking out a place in the car. Here we are.”
They walked up to one of the terraced apartment blocks and Leopold hit the buzzer. After the third jab, a voice crackled into life through the intercom.
“Oui, vous aider?” the voice asked.
Leopold leaned in to the grille. “Mademoiselle Bardot?”
A short pause. “Oui?”
“Parlez-vous anglais?” he asked. Do you speak English?
“Yes. Who is this?”
“My name is Leopold Blake. My associate and I are here from the New York Art Review Magazine. We were hoping to catch you at work, but the museum said you would be at home. We found your address online.” He waited for a response, hoping the lie would hold.
A short pause. “And what can I help you with?”
“We hoped to trouble you for a short interview. It would be a great opportunity for us to create a candid behind the scenes look at what goes on behind the walls of the Louvre. We want to show the world your talents, Mlle. Bardot. Will you spare us a few minutes?”
Another pause. “Pardon, I am not feeling too well. Please give me one moment.”
“Of course.”
After almost a minute of silence, “D’accord. You can come on up. Third floor.”
With a loud buzz, the door lock disengaged and the consultant pushed through into the communal hallway, a dark, cool passage sparsely decorated with white paint and a tile floor. The old wooden stairs leading up to Sophie’s apartment were toward the back of the room, and the steps creaked with over a century’s worth of warping as they climbed.
On the third floor Sophie Bardot was waiting, a tall, slim, young-looking woman with jet black hair and green eyes. She was dressed in a pair of loose fitting jeans and a printed tee shirt, and wore a look of impatience on her otherwise attractive face.
“Mlle. Bardot?” offered Leopold. “May we come inside?”
Nodding, Sophie waved them both inside and shut the door. Her apartment was outfitted in typical Parisian style, most of the furniture looked as though it had been reclaimed from junk yards and garage sales. The living area was small, just about big enough for a couch and armchair, with a bookshelf containing a few scattered titles and a kitchenette separated from the main room by an archway. An open window facing out onto the city took up most of the back wall, framed by a set of thin curtains that billowed gently in the breeze. Thanks to the elevation, the view over Paris was spectacular.
“Please, take a seat,” said Sophie. “Let me fetch you something to drink.”
“That would be perfect.”
Their hostess smiled, all traces of irritation gone. She fetched a large jug of pale lemonade from the fridge and nestled it on the tiny coffee table along with three glasses. She poured out three generous measures before helping herself, settling back into the armchair. Leopold took a sip. The flavors were magnificent, with just enough sugar to take the edge off without being too sweet.
“Thank you, it’s delicious,” he said, raising his glass. “Do you mind if we begin the interview?”
“Of course. Ask your questions.”
“Okay, first of all, tell me about your role at the museum. What is it that an art restorer does, exactly?”
Sophie sat up in her chair, taking a long sip of lemonade. “Most of the paintings in the Renaissance galleries are exposed to the atmosphere. It is only for a very select few pieces, such as the Mona Lisa, that we go to the expense of sealing them in an airtight UV-filtered case. Because of this, most of the artwork will begin to deteriorate over time as the moisture and sunlight gets into the paint. My job at the gallery is to clean and restore the paintings, as well as to preserve and protect them for the future.”
“And which paintings are sent to you?”
“Each of the oil paintings in the renaissance galleries is cleaned and restored on a rotating schedule, depending on the requirements of the piece in question. It can often take weeks to carry out the work required, especially if the painting is damaged, so I find myself busy most of the time. The smaller paintings can be restored by just one person, usually me, but the larger more valuable ones often require a team of experts.”
“And what work needs doing when you get these paintings through?”
“The usual problems are surface dirt, discoloration and cracked paint. Though, occasionally, the damage can be more severe on the older and more fragile works. It’s nothing I can’t handle, though.”
“And so modest, too,” said Leopold, smiling.
“Monsieur Blake,” she replied, leaning forward in her chair, “I have spent over a decade learning the styles of the Old Masters. I doubt there is anyone who has an eye for detail quite like mine.”
Leopold sipped his lemonade and set the glass down on the coffee table. “Are you aware of the recent theft from the museum, Mlle. Bardot?”
“There hasn’t been a theft from the museum in decades. Where are you getting your information?”
“I have my sources. ‘The Virgin and Child with St Anne’ is missing. In its place, a reproduction.” Leopold pulled out his cell phone and held up a picture of the painting. “The colors are all wrong. Since the last restoration, the palette is much brighter. Do you know who could have pulled something like this off?”
“C’est impossible! This is a joke, non?”
“I’m afraid not, Mlle. Bardot. Please, can you offer any insight?”
She took the cell phone from Leopold and held it up to her face. “This is not the true work of Da Vinci,” she deferred, zooming in on the image. “Even on a digital camera like this, I can tell.”
“Who could have taken the original?”
“Only somebody with enough influence over the board to have the displays moved,” she replied. “The painting would have to be moved into the back rooms. Otherwise, the security cameras would have picked something up.”
“When was the last time you saw the painting yourself?”
“Just a few weeks ago during a routine inspection. I signed everything off as satisfactory. Since then, I guess the frame was returned to its display in the gallery.”
“Is there any possibility it was intercepted on the way?”
“Again, only someone senior could arrange for –” she stopped mid sentence.
“What is it?” pressed Leopold. “Any information you have could be important.”
Sophie shook her head. “Non, it is just a coincidence.”
“If you don’t tell us, you’ll only make it harder for the police. You don’t want anything to happen to the painting, do you?”
She bit her lip thoughtfully. “There have been whispers. Especially with the news that Jean, I mean, Monsieur Dubois, was pushed into early retirement. There was, apparently, quite a commotion. I wasn’t there myself, but it’s not like the old man speaks to me much any more. Not that he ever did.”
“You know Dubois personally?”
Sophie let out a deep sigh. “There were always… problems. He was a good friend of my father’s. They spent a lot of time together when I was young, and I always heard about some of the crazy things he would spend his money on. He would throw his savings away on fast cars, lavish trips abroad, expensive paintings – it was like he couldn’t control himself. A government salary is generous, but it doesn’t begin to cover his tastes. There must have been a lot of debt. But for all his faults, he was not a bad man. He was not unkind.”
“Do you think he had enough of a motive to steal museum property?” asked Leopold.
“I don’t know. Even if he did steal something, how would he sell it? He would need some connections. He’s not the kind of man who deals with criminals.”
“Perhaps something pushed him over the edge?”
“Anything is possible. I’m sure he’s made enough enemies over the years… but to steal from the museum? Je ne sais pas. It seems incredible to think about him in this way. Will you excuse me please?”
Leopold
nodded as Sophie got to her feet and made her way through the door at the other end of the room, leaving the two men alone on the sofa.
“You’ve got that look,” said Jerome, frowning.
“What look?”
“The look that tells me you’re about to open up a giant can of worms and ruin a perfectly good vacation.”
“You’ve got to admit,” said Leopold, finishing his lemonade, “if Director Dubois was being kicked off the board, that does give him motive. Not just in terms of monetary gain, but revenge too. It’s a powerful incentive.”
“He would have had opportunity, too. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from our time together, we’re not going to get very far without some inside information.”
“Which is exactly why we need her,” he jabbed a finger at the closed door. “She knows something she’s not telling us.”
Before Jerome could answer, Leopold’s cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He fished out the handset and answered.
“I am speaking to Leopold Blake,” the gruff voice on the line announced, more of a statement than a question.
“Yes. Who is this?”
“This is Capitaine Anton Rousseau with the Préfecture de police de Paris.”
Leopold slapped his hand over the cell’s microphone. “It’s the police,” he whispered to Jerome. “The museum must have reported the theft.” He lifted the phone back to his ear. “Yes, Capitaine, I was expecting your call. How can I help?”
“You were expecting me?” Rousseau sounded surprised. “I understand you attempted to call Monsieur Dubois earlier today. You were the last telephone number registered on his telephone’s memory. I need to speak with you urgently. Can you come down to my office?”
“I’m in the middle of an interview right now.”
“I’m afraid I must insist.”
“What’s this all about, Capitaine?” asked Leopold, sensing he was missing something.
“I’m sorry to tell you this, Monsieur Blake, but Jean Dubois was murdered this afternoon. As you appear to be the last person to speak with him, I need to see you immediately.”
TEN
The guttural hum of engine noise resonated throughout the decks of The Thanatos, a constant reminder to the crew that they were always on the move. Despite the thick insulation and maze of interior walls, Senior Operative James Cullen could tell the captain had just increased their speed.
“Wherever we’re going, someone’s in a hurry,” said Rose, leaning in over his shoulder to get a better look at the monitors. “I’ve not had any alerts come through. Any idea where we’re headed?”
“Not a clue,” replied Cullen, scrolling through a text document. “Though it’s hardly the Director’s habit to keep people like us informed.” He highlighted a block of text.
“Anything good?”
“Another Blake reference. Like the others, it’s encrypted. But whatever it is, it’s important enough for the Director to have everything sent to his personal feed.”
“He’s the one getting the updates?”
“Yeah. Though I can’t see what’s so important about this Blake guy.” Cullen rested his chin in his hands.
“Who is he?”
“A nobody, really – just some guy with a trust fund. According to this,” he opened up another document, “he inherited his parents’ group of companies after they were killed in a hiking accident several years ago. Hardly surprising, given the weather conditions.” He brought up a high-resolution image of the Khumbu Icefall, a treacherous stretch of terrain along the hiking trails leading up to Mount Everest.
“Robert and Giselle Blake owned the majority shareholding in Blake Investments Inc.,” he continued, “which is an umbrella corporation for about a dozen other companies ranging from pharmaceutical and banking operations to military contractors and biological research. And pretty much everything else in between.”
“So the guy’s loaded?” asked Rose. “Maybe he’s a possible source of funds.”
Cullen shook his head. “Not likely. The Organization doesn’t take money direct. They’ve got a whole division set up to handle that sort of thing. This must be about something else, otherwise the Director wouldn’t be so interested. I guess they’ve got their eye on Blake for some other reason.”
Rose chuckled. “We could always ask the Director what’s going on. I hear he’s great when it comes to sharing.” She punched him playfully in the arm.
“Sure, why not,” said James, grinning. “He loves it when his staff asks questions.” He flipped back to the original encrypted document and sighed, scrolling through the reams of indecipherable text.
“Seriously though,” Rose rested a hand on his shoulder. “What happens if we get caught looking at this stuff? I’ve heard things… probably just rumors, but –”
“I’ve covered our tracks, don’t worry.” He glanced up into her eyes and registered a flash of concern. “They’re only rumors. Try to relax a little.”
“You gotta admit, the guy’s a little freaky,” she added, a wry smile returning to her lips. “I don’t think I’ve seen the Director outside of the bridge since I started my rotation here, and that was six months ago. Does he ever go outside?”
“Not that I know of. I guess he’s got everything he needs in there, and he’s not exactly the sociable type.”
“There’s something about him that gives me the creeps. Did you notice the scars?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Plastic surgery?”
Cullen shrugged. “Who knows. It doesn’t pay to ask questions. Which reminds me,” he swiveled in his chair, “don’t breathe a word of this to anyone. It’s not worth our jobs to get busted on this. I’m tempted to just call the whole thing off right now.”
“What, and give up getting to spend time alone with me?” said Rose, making pouty shapes with her lips.
“Please, don’t tempt me,” said James, giving her a gentle shove. “Getting rid of you would be reward enough.”
“Aww, be nice,” she replied. “I gotta go anyway. Catch ya later, boss.” She pecked him on the cheek.
“Get outta here, trouble.”
Rose turned and strolled out of Cullen’s office into the hurly burly of the command center outside, leaving the senior operative alone at his desk. With the privacy glass set to full strength, the walls were a dull haze of white light. Turning back to his computer screens, Cullen let out a deep sigh. With everything going on, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was getting in over his head.
ELEVEN
“What are you talking about? Who are you people?” Sophie’s voice was strained, despite Leopold’s attempts to break the news about Dubois’ death to her gently. He stood, not really knowing what to do with his hands as he tried to comfort her, keenly aware that any pretense he had managed to forge was disintegrating around him.
“Who are you?” she repeated.
“We lied to you, Mlle. Bardot,” he said. “We were working with M. Dubois to recover the stolen painting. Obviously, things have changed since we arrived. It was never our intention to cause trouble, we only want to do what’s best for the museum.”
“And I was a suspect?”
“We were just following a lead. In light of what’s happened…” he tried to find the right words. “I think it’s time we rethink things. I’m afraid we have to report to the police station downtown, I assume we’ll need to give a statement. I can arrange to meet you later if –”
“Like hell you will,” Sophie interrupted. “I’ve known Jean for twenty years. I’m coming with you.” She grabbed a thin jacket from a hook on the wall and threw it on, as though daring anyone to convince her otherwise. “We can take my car. If anyone tries to talk me out of this, you can walk. Comprenez-vous?”
Leopold nodded. “We understand. I know this must be difficult for you.”
“You don’t understand anything. Have you ever had a loved one murdered?”
/> Jerome glanced at his employer.
“It’s complicated,” Leopold said. “I’m sure your car will be fine. Please,” he gestured toward the doorway.
With a cold look, Sophie brushed past and set off toward the stairs. “The door will lock behind you.”
Once outside, she pulled a set of keys from her purse and marched up to a battered blue Citroen 2CV that was parked a little way down the street. The wheel arches were peppered with rust and some of the paint had blistered in the sun, but it looked structurally sound despite being more than twenty years past its prime. Assuming it ever had one.
“This is your car?” asked Jerome, eyeing the cramped seats.
“Yes. You have a problem?” said Sophie, unlocking the doors and jostling the driver’s side handle. “You’ll struggle to find a taxi at this time of day.”
The bodyguard didn’t reply, settling himself into the back seat and buckling the seatbelt around his bulky frame as best he could.
“There’s no problem,” said Leopold. “Do you know the way?”
“Of course I know the way; I’ve lived in this city all my life. Maybe you can just be quiet until we arrive, okay?”
Nodding, Leopold fastened his own safety belt as Sophie started the car, which spluttered into life with a reluctant rattle from its twin cylinder engine. Nudging the vehicle to the brow of the hill, she pressed her foot to the clutch and coasted the car down the steep slope toward the main road out of Montmartre. As they merged with the traffic, Leopold couldn’t shake the feeling that his vacation had come to a very sudden end.
TWELVE
The Paris police Commisariat Central headquarters were located south of the river, opposite the imposing Fontaine Saint-Sulpice, a dominating stone fountain incorporating four ornate statues depicting famous religious figures from history. The impressive monument rested upon four thick octagonal basins, concentric pedestals ringed with intricately carved stone lions who glared menacingly out over the city as cascades of water fell across their backs. In the shade of the great fountain, tourists and office workers sat and enjoyed the view, soaking up a little oasis of calm in the otherwise bustling neighborhood.
With a reluctant groan from the Citroen’s rusty brake pads, Sophie rolled the car into an empty loading bay and killed the engine, which Leopold presumed was to prevent it from committing suicide. The heat inside the vehicle was unbearable thanks to the steel chassis and lack of air conditioning, and Leopold could feel the sweat on his brow.