The History Thief: Ten Days Lost (The Sterling Novels) (53 page)

The rooftop was lined with carved stone from the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Started by Catherine Medici in 1560, but finished by Louis VIII in 1643, the stones were used to house and protect the Hellenistic-era Parian masterpiece.

The chiseled stones were an abstract mixture of light-colored sand and weather-darkened veins. Charney reached his toes delicately downward toward them as the rooftop approached.

The landing was gentle; he quickly deflated the chute and, arm-over-arm, reeled in the canopy in order to avoid it sucking him to the ground below.

He was fast. The harness, canopy, and pack were off of his body and cast aside, but only temporarily—he would need them again when finished. Near where he landed, an iron, digitally secured control box routed numerous cables for the museum’s closed circuit television security system (CCTV).

He had memorized the code for the box—it, too, had been supplied, as requested by his benefactor.

Inside of the iron box was a maze of intertwined cables and wires. It took a few moments to find which one he needed; it was labeled with a simple
DP
. Charney quickly exposed bare the copper wire that was inside the protective rubber sheath. Tapping into the CCTV was a simple affair; he attached one end of two small leads to the copper and inserted the USB of the other end into a small laptop. The diminutive four-inch LCD screen glowed to life, and he soon saw what the camera inside recorded: the entire hallway leading to the Escalier Daru. He watched as the camera panned the length of the stairs and felt a twinge of excitement as the shadowed outline of Samothrace materialized. Punching a series of commands, he recorded the scene for half a minute and then fed a looping image of the recorded scene into the CCTV system.

He would be invisible while at work.

Creeping back to the cupola, he peered downward and inside of the hallway. A low light bathed the Daru Staircase; he could no longer see her, but he knew at the top of staircase she stood.

There she waited for him, beckoned for him.

He was so close; for the first time, the excitement of the conquest reverberated through him as his heart beat much faster; his breathing was suddenly fast and shallow.

Control,
he had to remind himself.

It felt like the first time.

He glanced at his watch. He had precisely four minutes to get into the Louvre.

From his pack, he pulled out a small pneumatic tool and a thick, square metal plate. Four successive pulls of the tool’s trigger, and the plate was anchored into the stone of the roof by four bolts. Welded atop the plate was a thick D-ring to which he attached a fast rope.

Charney glanced at his watch and then down into the Louvre.

Three minutes.

He removed a Trango fast rope descender from his bag and affixed it to the fast rope. Within moments, the opposite end was attached to his rappelling harness.

Dropping into a prostrate position, he rapped his knuckle lightly on the glass to gauge its thickness.

On his belt were the tools of his trade; without looking he reached for the stainless steel CRL 320 glasscutter with his right hand and removed it from its sheath.

With his left hand he removed a large industrial suction cup from his cargo pocket.

He first put the suction cup on the glass; depressing a small button, a tiny electronic motor removed all air between the rubber of the cup and the glass.

The vacuum created a pressure that flattened and sealed the suction cup as firmly as cement to the cupola’s thick glass. With a second, shorter rope, he affixed the handle of the suction cup to the D-ring mounted into the stone.

Next, he carefully placed the edge of the nickel-plated cutting heads of the glasscutter atop the cupola. It had six different cutting heads. He chose the sixth one—capable of cutting through glass greater than one-half inch thick.

A trickle of sweat lined the part of his forehead nearest his hairline. He ignored the growing beads and ran the glasscutter along the edges of the frame until he felt the glass give.

The rope to which the suction cup was attached sped through the cupola, falling three feet and then snapping taut. A small stream of anxiousness ran through Charney as he waited for the sound of crashing glass.

It never came.

Neither did any alarm. The blueprints—his nonnegotiable request from his benefactor—had outlined every aspect of security on the wing, and on these cupolas there was none.

In fact, all of the alarms were wired to each piece of artwork and to the building’s doors and the windows along its walls. It wasn’t an oversight on the security planner’s part to not arm the cupolas; they just simply believed that malicious activity in the Louvre was better monitored at the source of that maliciousness, and not at the heavy glass of the cupolas.

And there was no alarm on Samothrace; it was believed that no one could steal a multi-ton, larger-than-life-sized statue.

Charney looked through the new opening of the cut glass and watched for a moment as the heavy pane oscillated slightly three feet below.

He smiled.

One more glance at his watch—thirty seconds.

The time ticked by, and he held his breath.

At the precise moment outlined in the information given to him on the USB flash drive, a shadow flickered across the staircase.

One of the Louvre’s night watchmen was whistling nonchalantly a random series of notes belonging to no recognizable song while using his flashlight more to illuminate his path than to study his surroundings for anything amiss.

Charney watched as the man descended the lengthy staircase; he now stood with his feet at the edge of the stone where a moment ago there had been glass.

He waited and watched.

The night watchman walked below, oblivious to the dark-clothed man and pane of glass dangling above.

Staring straight down through the cupola, with the fast rope held tight between his gloved fingers, Charney lowered himself until his body formed the ninety-degree shape of the letter L.

As he released his grip slightly, the fast rope moved over the leather of his gloves. Charney continued to lower himself slowly until he was past the hanging piece of glass. At that moment, when safely beyond the glass, he dropped deftly and quickly behind the night watchman.

There had been little palpable sound; none, anyway, that would have warned the night watchman of any impending danger. Only a slight splash of air fell across the watchman’s neck. It was surprising enough to stop him in his tracks, but not enough to ripple through him the fear that he should have felt.

Instead, he was nervous.

It was of no matter. He was only a watchman; his name was Claude Berengér, and he was a simple man resigned to live out his days wandering the halls of the Louvre for a meager living. He wielded a flashlight and a radio as weapons: the first was used to light his way in the darkened halls and the second to pass the time, uttering crude jokes with the other watchmen. His life was mostly carefree and void of any real responsibility. He wasn’t a man trained in anything of real importance; he certainly wasn’t trained to defend himself from an impending attack.

When the air brushed across his neck, it meant little more than having been a distraction from the norm. When the slight sound of the fast rope echoed behind him, it didn’t register danger.

It had been planned, and he had been paid handsomely for his minor part. All that had been required was to let the thief knock him unconscious and to make his chain of keys easily accessible to the man. The task to which he agreed had been worth the one hundred thousand euros he was offered. It would be his way to an early retirement and required only a splitting headache.

Claude didn’t care about the priceless artwork that he guarded. That day had ended long ago. No longer did he have pride in his work. He was tired as much as he was resigned—every day. He was more than happy to have accepted their offer.

Claude knew that it was time. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the chain of keys and let them dangle at his side.

Then he braced himself for the blow, squeezing his eyes tightly shut.

But when the leather of the glove reached across his neck, he had scarcely the time to calculate the coming of his own death.

It was quick and to the fortune of both men.

To the night watchman, the dark spaces within the many crevices and angles of the Louvre’s hallway faded even darker.

With a loud crack, Claude’s knees buckled, and he slumped to the floor, his neck broken. His hand fell to his side, and the keys pinged loudly against the floor. Charney grabbed them along with dead man’s radio and went to work.

Charney had to work fast—really fast. He had every detail planned down to the minute.

Nearby was a storage room, just as had been outlined in the blueprints on the USB flash drive. Running to it, he tried one key and then the next. It was the fourth key that unlocked the door.

Scanning its interior, he saw that everything he had asked for was there.

Running back to the dead man’s body, he dragged it into the voluminous storage room, casting it into one of the corners. The room was cluttered with cleaning supplies, rags, various tools, and equipment. Three large boxes of light colored oak glistened brightly in contrast to the dark walls and floor of the room. He opened each of them. Taking a quick inventory, he was relieved that everything had been provided.

But no smile of satisfaction was on his face.

Time would not be his ally. He would have slightly longer than one hour to complete his task; it would take all of his skills to make his masterpiece a reality. The night watchman would be expected back at his post in that time.

His movements were efficient and supported by the supplies provided.

The first box contained rolls of rubber tracks that, when unrolled across the floor of the Louvre, resembled those for a small train. The next box contained narrow black hose—yards of it. In one of the room’s corners was an old sink used to clean dirty rags. On its faucet he clamped the brass-tipped end of the hose. With expediency he bolted up the Daru Staircase, unfurling hose with each stair climbed.

The third and final box was entirely too large for its two lone contents: lengths of electrical cord and a handheld water jet cutter. The cutter was the best of its class, the newest on the market and quite expensive.

He held the cutter in both hands, surprised at its weight—or lack thereof—and thumbed the sintered boride nozzle. The best that commercial water cutters could provide was ninety thousand pounds per square inch; this one was capable of one hundred and fifty thousand.

Cradling the cutter in his arms as if it were an infant, he returned to Samothrace. Before her, he stood. It was the only time that he would allow himself a moment where he did nothing. She was magnificent, tantalizing even. He imagined Annette was there with him, standing at his side, her hand in his. He could feel her heartbeat.

He could hear her breathe.

He could almost hear her speak.

The thought of his dead love offered no distraction, only a reminder. She was his
dateless bargain.

With his steadfast gaze, he traced Samothrace’s exotic, Parian curves from the tip of her torso and downward to her feet. Samothrace stood atop the carved bow of a ship, and each of the billows of her cascading clothing was sheer and expertly chiseled to look wet from the spray of salt water. They erotically clung to the voluptuous curves of her breasts and hips, hugging every part of her strong, feminine frame.

Inside him, the faded memory of his fingertips touching Annette’s own curves grew warmer the longer he stared.

Samothrace was Annette.

Annette was Samothrace.

Samothrace was his.

He reached with his forefinger and easily depressed the switch that powered on the cutter.

It vibrated to life with a low, musical hum.

His movements were fast and precise. The kerf of each cut was no wider than a human hair; there would be no interference by the friction of the water with the stone. The heat-affected zone was instantly cooled by each fresh particle of water.

Piece by piece, he delicately dismembered her, until she no longer stood atop the carved pedestal.

The marble bow of the ship was now bare of Samothrace. Charney’s face was covered with fine Parian dust split by long streaks of caked sweat. His chest was heaving, as his efforts were no small feat.

He wiped his forearm across his brow; only then did he notice the heavy layer of dust across his skin.

Behind Charney, water from the cutter flowed like a small waterfall over each of the Daru stairs as gravity pulled it downward. Most of it would make its way naturally, and by design, to the handful of drains that pockmarked the grand facility. The rest would evaporate quickly in the climate-controlled air of the Louvre.

The empty crates were placed on the tracks and soon were filled with the separated parts of the masterpiece. Time moved fast, but Charney moved faster. Along the tracks he pushed the filled crates to the Louvre’s south-end loading docks.