The Gilded Seal (25 page)

white tie that seemed to bisect him down the middle like the

flash of a sword blade.

The food and plates had been meticulously laid out in front

of him, each colorfully glazed dish and bamboo basket a pre-

cise distance from the next as per his written instructions and

hand-drawn table plan. He was nothing if not a creature of

habit and his staff had learned not to disappoint him.

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t w i n i n g

“Takeshi-San,” Leo began. “A delivery from America.

From New York.”

He held out a small white box secured with a black velvet

bow.

Takeshi looked up, placed his chopsticks down on their

porcelain rest, pressed a crisp napkin to his lips, replaced it

in his lap and held his hand out with a click of his long fi n-

gers. Holding the box carefully in both hands and bowing

deeply, Leo gently placed it on to his palm and then stepped

back.

Takeshi looked up at him with a questioning frown, the

smooth skin on his forehead creasing, his contracting mus-

cles sending small ripples of movement back along the length

of his polished skull like a pond shivering as a fi sh swims

just below its mirrored surface.

“It’s cold.”

“It came in a refrigerated container,” Leo explained.

Takeshi stared at him, his green eyes unblinking and glow-

ing in the gloom like two small lanterns released into the night

sky. Leo lowered his gaze, knowing that it would be disre-

spectful to hold his stare for more than a few seconds.

With a nod, Takeshi unraveled the black bow and removed

the lid. Peering inside, his face relaxed into a smile. He picked

up his chopsticks, reached into the box and removed a small

object that he held up.

For a moment Leo thought it was an oyster or scallop, but

a sudden flash of color and the thin web of capillaries coating

its glistening surface made him swallow hard. It was an eye-

ball, the trailing muscle tissue and nerve endings bunched up

under it like jellyfi sh tentacles.

“An eye for an eye. Isn’t that the expression?” Takeshi said

unsmilingly.

“The art dealer?” Leo guessed.

“The lawyer,” Takeshi corrected him. “I gave orders that

they be cut out before he died. So he could understand what I

see when I look at the pictures he sold me.”

“You heard that we found the other one?”

“In Paris, yes,” said Takeshi.

“The men are flying there today.”

t h e g i l d e d s e a l

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A pause.

“I think I’ll go with them.”

“Sir?” Leo made no attempt to hide his surprise. Takeshi

hadn’t been off the 53rd floor of this building in over six

years.

“The video’s never as good as the real thing.”

“No,” Leo agreed, still reeling.

“Besides, maybe the trip will do me good.”

“Yes.”

“We’ll take the jet.”

“Of course.”

Leo turned to leave, but then remembered something.

“Do you want me to get rid of those?” He nodded at the

box.

“No need.”

Takeshi flicked the eyeball he was holding to the fl oor in

front of the dog to his left. Then he delicately extracted the

other one with the chopsticks and tossed it to his right. Both

animals watched him unblinkingly, their heads slightly tilted,

ears erect, thick fronds of slaver swinging from their jaws.

Takeshi clicked his fingers. The dogs leaped forward, one

snuffl ing flex of their jaws popping each eyeball open like a

ripe egg, the watery yolk exploding through the gaps in their

creamy teeth.

C H A P T E R T H I R T Y- F I V E

LES ULIS, SUBURBS OF PARIS

22nd April— 7:03 a.m.

Who is it?”

Archie nodded at Tom’s phone vibrating noisily on

the dash.

Tom glanced at it, then looked away.

“Jennifer. She probably wants to arrange a time to return

my briefcase.”

“You going to answer it?”

“Not until Henri’s spoken to her.”

The phone fell silent. Then a few moments later it started

ringing again.

“She’s per sistent,” Archie noted.

“Maybe she wants to talk about what happened last night.”

“What did happen last night?” Dumas leaned forward in

the gap between the two front seats and grabbed Tom’s left

wrist, examining his knuckles.

“There was a journalist—” Tom snatched his hand away,

realizing that he wasn’t going to get away without an expla-

nation. “A real low-life. He’d flown here to follow up on some

shitty little story he’s writing. She was upset. Stupid bastard

wouldn’t shut up. So I hit him.”

t h e g i l d e d s e a l

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“You’re my hero, Tom,” Archie mimicked a woman’s voice

and then laughed, Dumas joining in.

He’d never admit it to these two, but he’d really felt for Jen-

nifer as Lewis’s barrage of steel-edged questions had bitten

into her. He’d wanted to make that startled, lost look on her

face go away.

“I think she was more upset than grateful,” he argued.

“Not too upset to take the briefcase,” Dumas pointed out.

“You must have cooked up a hell of a good story.” He winked.

“You’re actually enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Why, aren’t you?” Dumas fi red back.

“Jennifer’s a good person. Who knows, in another life the

two of us . . . I just don’t like using her like this.”

“It was your idea,” Dumas reminded him.

“I know. That just makes it worse,” Tom said glumly.

“Break it up, girls, I think we’re on.”

Archie pointed excitedly toward the man opening the gates

to the low-slung ware house on the other side of the road. A

sign to the left of the main door indicated that this was the

head office of Lacombe et Fils, the firm responsible for main-

taining the
Mona Lisa
’s air-conditioning unit.

“You got a signal here?” Tom nodded at the laptop balanc-

ing on Archie’s knees.

“Seems okay.”

Tom and Dumas got out of the car and made their way

through the gates into the courtyard. Some tires had been

stacked precariously in the far corner, next to an old motor-

bike that had been stripped for parts until only its rusty skel-

eton remained. A blue Renault van was parked on the other

side of the cobbled area, the fi rm’s name and phone number

emblazoned down the side.

The reception was deserted. Two low plastic chairs fl anked

an empty watercooler. Posters illustrating half-naked women

draped awkwardly over air filters and air-conditioning power

plants adorned the drab and peeling walls.

“Anybody home?” Dumas called in French, before pinch-

ing his thumb and forefinger together, placing them against

his lower lip and giving a sharp whistle.

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“Can I help?” A man appeared, wiping his hands on his

trousers, the sound of flushing water echoing behind him.

“Who are you?” Dumas barked.

“Marcel Dutroux.” The man frowned.

“Dutroux. Marcel.” Dumas made a show of carefully writ-

ing the name down. “My name is Alain Gueneau. This is my

colleague Marc Berger. We’d like to talk to the duty manager

about a matter of national security.” He flashed him an out-

of-date secret service badge that he had dug out of one of his

drawers at home.

“Th- that’s me,” the man stammered, pushing his glasses

up the bridge of his nose. “I’m the only one here until eight.”

“Excellent.” Dumas gave him a tight smile. “Dutroux, we

have reason to believe that terrorists may be planning to use

air-conditioning units to spread poison gas through govern-

ment buildings.”

Tom suppressed a smile. Dumas was well aware that there

was nothing like the T-word to grab people’s attention. Be-

sides, unfortunately, these days it wasn’t quite as fanciful an

idea as it might once have been.

“Poison gas?” Dutroux’s eyes bulged.

“That’s right. We understand that you have maintenance

contracts with a number of government agencies and organi-

zations. We need to know exactly what measures you have in

place to safeguard against someone tampering with your

units.”

“Of course.” Dutroux nodded furiously. “Follow me.”

He lifted the counter and then ushered them through into

the back office. The overhead strip-lights flickered on, re-

vealing an open-plan room with twelve desks arranged in

three pods of four. One of them was garlanded with cards

and balloons, perhaps indicating a recent birthday.

“All our units are remotely monitored here—” Dutroux in-

dicated one of the workstations which, unlike the others, was

free of clutter. “Any unauthorized tampering would automati-

cally get flagged on the system and then trigger a site visit.”

“Show me,” Dumas ordered.

With a nod, Dutroux entered the password and unlocked

the machine.

t h e g i l d e d s e a l

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“Here, you see—” he pointed at the screen. “Every unit we

manage . . .”

As Dutroux launched into a detailed explanation of how

the system worked, Tom quietly stepped away and ap-

proached the large whiteboard that had been screwed to the

far wall. It showed the various jobs for the week and which

team had been allocated to each. He studied it quickly, mak-

ing a mental note of a couple of the itineraries and roughly

where each vehicle could be expected when.

“Berger, you okay to wait here for a few minutes?” Dumas

called from across the room. “Monsieur Dutroux has offered

to give me a quick tour of the facility.”

“Sure,” Tom called back.

Dutroux ushered Dumas out of the room toward the ware-

house, still loyally expounding the virtues of his company’s

system. Tom waited until their footsteps had faded, then ran

over to the computer they had just been consulting. Dutroux

had sensibly gone to the trouble of locking it, although this

was a slightly redundant precaution given that Tom had been

able to read his password over his shoulder as he had typed it

in. He grabbed a CD from his pocket. Loading it into the

computer, he located the program it contained and then ran

it, his eyes flicking nervously to the door, mindful of the risk

of Dutroux returning at any moment. A few agonizingly long

minutes later, his phone rang.

“Archie? Can you see it?”

“Yeah. It’s just popped up now.”

“The password’s ‘Belmondo.’ ”

Tom heard the sound of approaching voices. There was

silence from Archie.

“Come on,” Tom urged.

A door squeaked open and then slammed shut, their foot-

steps perilously close now.

“Archie!”

“I’m in. Go!”

Grabbing the CD out of the tray, Tom locked the screen

again and sprinted over to a Pirelli calendar which he was

staring at intently by the time Dumas and Dutroux walked

back in.

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t w i n i n g

“Ready?” Dumas arched his eyebrows into a question.

“Just about,” Tom nodded, slipping the CD into the back

pocket of his jeans.

“Monsieur Dutroux, you have been extremely helpful.”

Dumas shook his hand enthusiastically. “I commend you for

your vigilance. On behalf of France, thank you.”

For a moment, Dutroux looked like he might pass out with

pride.

C H A P T E R T H I R T Y- S I X

FOUR SEASONS HOTEL GEORGE V, 8TH ARRONDISSEMENT,

PARIS

22nd April— 8:21 a.m.

Jennifer stepped out of the elevator and turned toward the

Le Cinq restaurant. Her discussion with Green had led to a

fitful night’s sleep. A proper breakfast and plenty of coffee

was her only chance of surviving the day in one piece; cer-

tainly of making her fl ight home.

“Ma de moi selle Browne?”

A voice called over from one of the chairs arranged in

front of the reception desk and a man stood up.

Jennifer looked over and smiled in recognition.

“Monsieur Besson.”

If Besson’s surfwear had looked slightly inappropriate

when she had seen him yesterday, then here, amidst the glis-

tening chandeliers, ornate ormolu clocks and hand-polished

marble floors, it verged on the offensive. That certainly seemed

to be the opinion of the concierge, who was eyeing him with

unconcealed disdain.

“Is everything okay?” she asked with a frown.

“I’m sorry to bother you here . . .” He seemed strangely

agitated, compared to the last time they’d met. Or rather one

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half of his face appeared agitated; the other remained as im-

passive and inscrutable as ever.

“Is there somewhere we can talk?” He glanced furtively at

the concierge.

“Yes, of course.” She led him away from the front desk to

a sofa positioned squarely underneath a gaudy tapestry of the

Annunciation. “What is it?”

“Your number, the Louvre accession number you showed

me.”

“What about it?”

“Did you ever find out what it was?”

“I had an appointment to see someone at the Louvre yes-

terday,” Jennifer replied. “They had to cancel. I was going to