The Paris Caper (38 page)

“Pierre!” he yelled.

“
Oui
?” Pierre
elbowed his way through the churning mass of humanity to his side.

Jean-Marc tossed down his
cards, face up, then jabbed a finger at her. “Do
not
let her out of your
sight.”

Then he was gone, the
multitudes parting in his path as though for Moses.

Pierre gave Ciara a hard
look. She cringed. And noticed that everyone else was staring at her, too.

Suddenly she remembered.

His cards
...

She spun. Looked at the
two cards sitting alone on the table.

And her heart stopped.

Suddenly, CoCo appeared
at Ciara’s side.

“Go! Go!” she whispered
urgently, then launched herself at Pierre, spinning him around. “Omigod, baby,
this is too exciting! I want a drink!”

Ciara was still rooted to
the spot. But at CoCo’s frantic shooing motion, her wits returned and she slid
away into the crowd. Straining against the rush of curious people, she worked
her way to the other side of the room.

As planned, Valois was
waiting for her at the elevator, holding the door open with a metal attaché
case. They went quickly to the second floor and hurried toward the Palm room,
where Villalobo was waiting.

“Any trouble getting in?”
Ciara asked.

“No. Ricardo was at the
catering entrance just as arranged. The diversion went well, I saw.”

“Better than expected,”
she muttered, slowing her pace a bit for the old man. The Palm room was one of
the furthest away in the huge upstairs labyrinth of private banquet and gaming
rooms, and he was already getting winded. “Remind me to tell you about it
sometime.”

“Sounds ominous.”

She refused to think
about any of that right now. If she did she’d— She ruthlessly cut off the
thought. “The room should be right beyond this—”

As she went around the
last corner, she was forced to an abrupt halt. By a man in a tuxedo. Holding a
large gun.

♥♥♥

Jean-Marc stalked grimly
over to where the Monet and Faberge Egg were on display. Correction:
had
been
on display.

Now, the ornate gilded
frame was graced by one of Sofie’s charming, but hardly masterful, stylized
copies of Monet’s water lilies.

He had to hand it to
Ciara and her accomplices. The switch had been brilliantly executed. Not a soul
had observed who the culprits were, and they’d gotten clean away. He thought
with annoyance of his own unintended cameo role in their distraction.
Merde
.
What would they have done if his blackjack game hadn’t turned out quite
so...fascinating? No doubt they’d had an excellent plan. Ciara always had an
excellent plan.

The guards and casino
manager crowded behind him, all talking at once. The owner was running around
pulling his hair. Jean-Marc couldn’t hear himself think.

“Silence!” he roared
above the din. “And somebody shut off those damned alarms!”

Steeling himself for the
worst, he peered closely at Sofie’s Monet. The steel coil of panicked
uncertainty in his stomach unwound slightly. Unlike with the Picasso, the fake
Monet hadn’t been stapled to the rear of the frame. In fact, it appeared to be
sitting loose on top of it, just overlapping the inside edges. He reached up
and yanked it off.

The men behind him gasped.

“
Voilà
,” he said
with an acute rush of relief.

They gasped again.

The real Monet in all its
glory sat placidly in its frame. Unharmed. Untouched.

“
Alors
,” he said,
passing the fake canvas to one of his men. “And the egg?”

The group of security
guards herded him over to a beautiful chest-high pedestal of clear fluted
crystal, topped with an acanthus leaf capital and small square platform. On the
platform sat a clear box, presumably of some bulletproof, tamper-proof polymer.
Inside, photos of the egg had been inserted to line each side and the top of
the box. A crude, but effective illusion. From a distance, the egg appeared to
be there. Upon closer inspection, it was obviously photos.
Davie’s
photos.

“Hmm.” He gingerly
touched his finger to the box. Then smiled and whipped it off. “
Et, voilà
.”

The alarms suddenly
stopped. The idiotic guards gasped again into the vibrating silence.

The real box, with the
Faberge Egg intact, was right where it should be. The false box in his hand had
merely been slipped over it. He gave it to another one of his men.

After a few stunned
seconds, the manager erupted in an angry diatribe at the guards, who all
started defending themselves at once.

Jean-Marc suddenly
glanced at his watch. Five minutes after midnight. Why hadn’t Pierre called?
Had something gone wrong?

“You’re in charge here,”
he told his ranking officer, who stood close by.

Then he made a beeline
for the kitchens, taking off his tuxedo jacket as he went. A dozen armed,
uniformed officers waited for him in the kitchen.

“Where’s
Lieutenant
Rousselot?” he asked the cop who tossed him his shoulder holster and weapon,
which he quickly slipped on.

“Followed the suspect
upstairs, sir,” the man replied.

He slid his jacket back
on. “No one came in here looking him?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Send a man to see
that the woman he was with stays in the casino. I don’t want her showing up
unexpectedly.”

“Will do, sir.”

Jean-Marc hated that he
couldn’t be upstairs for the sting. But he couldn’t take the chance of blowing
it. Ciara knew him too well. Even Beck would recognize him in an instant—almost
breaking a man’s nose would do that. For that matter, Villalobo may also;
Jean-Marc’s face was not exactly unknown on television and in the papers. So
he’d had to send Pierre in his place.

Never mind. His partner
was as reliable as they came. He’d see everything went down exactly as it
should, leading right up to the final arrests.

In the meantime,
Jean-Marc walked determinedly to the service elevator, folded his arms over his
chest and took up his stance in front of it.
No one
was getting past him
tonight.

“All right, men,” he
ordered. “Positions, everyone.”

No turning back now. He
thought grimly of Ciara, and the guilt and apprehension nearly overwhelmed him.
But there was no calling it off, even if he wanted to. The trap was in place.

All he could do was pray
his quarry walked into it.

♥♥♥

“Goddamn it, Beck!” Ciara
sputtered angrily. She could not
believe
what was happening. “Only a
fool would take the cash! Money is traceable. Besides, the diamonds are worth
twice this amount. And they’re unmarked!”

She had managed to talk
Beck into lowering his gun, but the man was adamant. He wanted the cash, not
the diamonds.

“How much is in the
case?” Beck demanded for the fourth time. He whipped his gun up again, pointing
at her face. “Tell me or I’ll—”

“Six million euros,” said
Valois, who had been silent up until now. For a man about to lose a substantial
chunk of change, he seem strangely unperturbed.

“For six million, I’ll
take my chances. Open the briefcase, bitch.” Beck’s gun jerked in warning.

Jetting out a furious
breath, she snapped open the metal locks and raised the lid as Valois held it.
Beck dug down to the bottom of the case and carefully inspected several
bundles, fanning the bills to be sure they were legit.

Cackling like a hen who’d
just been fed, he said, “Now close it up and hand it over.”

“No.” Her firm refusal
reverberated down the hall, surprising both men. “Go ahead and shoot me. I’m
not giving you the damn money.”

Hell, paranoid as
Villalobo was, if he thought he’d been betrayed, she was good as dead anyway.

Becks gun-slide cocked
menacingly. “Hand it over,
connasse
, or you’re dead!”

“You can wait for the
diamonds like we agreed,” she gritted out.

“Ciara, listen to the
man,” Valois pleaded softly. “I can handle Villalobo. Trust me,
ma petite.
”
He looked at her imploringly.

She ground her teeth
together, trying to decide what to do. Hell, the old man had faced down Nazis.
He could probably handle one slime bag drug dealer. And as for Beck, catching
him with stolen cash wasn’t as damning as blood diamonds, but he’d still go to
jail. Which meant Sofie could press charges for rape without fearing for her
life.

“Okay fine,” she acceded.
“But I’m warning you, leave the country tonight and don’t ever come back. Or
I’ll tell Villalobo exactly who double-crossed his deal.”

Beck snorted, grabbing
the case from her. “If you live past tonight. Goodbye bitch. Give Sofie my
love.”

And with that he was
gone.

Ciara spit out a choice
oath, then turned to Valois. “God, I’m sorry. I can’t believe Beck did this.
All your money, gone.”

“Not to worry. There’s
more where that came from.”

“Like I could ask you to
do that. Damn, I could
kill
him!”

Valois sighed, looking
suddenly uncomfortable. “Listen,
ma petite
, there’s something I must
tell you.”

“Later. Right now I need
to find—”

“That won’t be necessary,”
a voice said from behind her.

She spun. And was
overjoyed to see Pierre Rousselot standing there. He didn’t hold a gun in his
hand, but one was tucked under his tuxedo jacket in a holster, clearly visible.

“Thank God! Just who I
wanted to see,” she burst out in relief. “
Brigadier
Louis Beck just
stole six million euros from this man. He’s getting away. You—”

“Yes, I know all about
that,” Pierre interrupted, a slight curl to his lip.

“You need to go after
him! Call Jean-Marc. He’ll tell you—”

“Forget Jean-Marc. He’s
busy downstairs.”

“But Beck—”

“Forget about Beck, too.
We have more important things to take care of.”

Her jaw dropped. What was
going on? Then suddenly, she faltered. Oh, God...
He and CoCo
—
She
should have listened to her instincts
. Painful as they were.

“You want the diamonds,”
she said, her heart breaking in a million pieces. CoCo had been like a little
sister. Her betrayal cut like a razor.

But the betrayers were
going to be very disappointed.

“The buy will go as
planned,” Pierre said. “With one small change. I’ll be accompanying you as a
bodyguard. We’re already late. Let’s go.”

“Sorry to disappoint
you,” she informed him acidly as he took her arm in a vise-like grip and towed
her along the corridor toward the Palm room, Valois following along behind.
“There’s no money.”

The news didn’t faze
Pierre, or slow him. “Not a problem,” he said. “Monsieur Valois has kindly made
available an equivalent amount in a bank in Switzerland. Villalobo prefers
electronic transfer anyway. More cash is the last thing a drug dealer needs.”

“You spoke to Valois
about this?” she asked, stunned. “Before tonight?”

“I was trying to tell
you,” Valois murmured.

She wanted to cry. So
CoCo and Pierre had deceived the old man, too, to gain his cooperation. And now
he’d be out twelve million instead of six. Ciara had no idea what he was worth,
but that had to be a good slice of it.

As they approached the
Palm room, she hissed, “You’ll never get aw—”

“Quiet!” Pierre ordered.

Two gorillas guarding the
door saw them, and immediately reached for hidden weapons. “Private game,” one
said in broken French. “Get lost.”

“
Señor
Villalobo
is expecting
Monsieur
Valois,” Pierre told them.

One guard opened the
door, exchanged a few words with someone in the room, then jerked his head at Valois.
“
Solo el viejo
.”

Over her dead body
.
“Not a chance,” Ciara said firmly. “I’m his diamond expert. I have to go in,
too.”

“And I’m his bodyguard,”
Pierre said. “He goes nowhere without me. It’s all three of us, or we walk away
and there’s no deal.”

The guard glanced between
them uncertainly, then stuck his head back in. “
Bueno
,” he finally said.
“You can all go in, but I have to search you for weapons.”

The search was unpleasant
and very thorough. Ciara had to restrain herself from retaliating with a very
thorough ball-kicking. But she knew that would get her real dead real quick.
And she needed to live. Giving Pierre his due after all this was over would be
far more satisfying.

He must have left his
carte
at home, because they were all admitted after the gun from his holster and one
strapped to his ankle were confiscated.

They walked in, and Ciara
almost gagged from the thick haze of cigar smoke. Villalobo sat at a green felt
table in the middle of a poker game. A large pot of cash sat in the middle, surrounded
by four or five other players. At a signal from Villalobo, they filed out of
the room. The gorillas stayed.

“So you made it at last,”
he said in French heavily accented with Spanish. He took a drag from his foul
cigar while studying them one by one with blatant distrust.

Valois stepped forward.
“Our apologies for the delay. There was a bit of a fuss downstairs. The place
is swarming with cops.”

Villalobo’s black eyes
narrowed. “Were you followed?”

“Absolutely not. They
have their hands full downstairs,” Valois assured him.

Ciara was grateful for
the long gown that covered her suddenly quaking knees. With his pinstriped
suit, slicked-back hair and thick, menacing scar running along one jaw, the
drug dealer looked exactly like someone straight out of a bad gangster movie.