He finished to polite applause and turned the microphone over to the portly minister of culture. Marchionette’s voice boomed over the hushed crowd, but Janine didn’t need to hear his speech again. She’d heard it three times today. She turned on her heel, fury fueling her steps.
She moved to the back of the Hall and saw Simone de Vries speaking rapidly to a uniformed guard. As she approached them, Simone turned and left the Hall. Janine caught the eye of the guard.
“Excusez-moi. Have you seen Monsieur Tremont?” she asked him.
“Madame de Vries just asked the same question,” he replied. “I saw him about an hour ago, near the gaming room.”
“Merci, monsieur.” The gaming room? Where the passageway to the chapel was hidden. Could he have gone to see the Plums? To finally make the exchange? As she crossed the Hall, she pictured the mirror and hidden door. Could she figure out how he opened the passageway, and then navigate her way through the dark?
Pausing under an archway, she glanced toward the stage where the minister extolled the French president’s unwavering support for the arts. But she didn’t see the man at the podium, because her gaze was caught by icy gray eyes. This time, the man didn’t seem quite so menacing. She could have sworn he raised an eyebrow, and the slightest hint of a smile lifted his lip.
Who was that man and why did he seem so interested in her? One of Luc’s dragueurs? She saw his mouth move as though he spoke to himself. Or into a hidden microphone.
Oh. Not one of Luc’s dragueurs. One of Luc’s henchmen.
She left the Hall of Mirrors, heading straight for the grand vestibule outside the king’s suite. It was empty, as every guest had crowded into the Hall in anticipation of the president’s speech. Two impassive guards flanked the entryway to the bedchamber. Only one let his gaze sweep over her. The other took his responsibility very seriously, staring straight ahead.
A thunderous ovation burst from the Hall of Mirrors. The president must have taken the podium. She continued toward a hallway that ran alongside all of the rooms.
“Where are you going in such a hurry?”
Spinning around, she met the beady eyes of the Figaro reporter. She hadn’t heard him approach her over the applause. “What do you want?”
“Pardon, Madame. You are anxious to go somewhere, non?”
She nodded and tilted her head away from him. “La salle de bain.” Surely he wouldn’t follow her to the bathroom.
“Madame, I must ask you, how closely have you looked at those vases?” He took a step toward her. “I seriously doubt their authenticity.”
She inched away. Did he mean the forgeries, or was he simply another critic who thought the whole concept of the Plums was bogus? “There is nothing to doubt.”
“Perhaps you could prove that to me right now.” Again he crept closer. “Perhaps you will show me the markings and allow me to examine the underglaze.”
If he was smart enough to know what an underglaze was, maybe he really did know something about porcelain. His sneaky eyes narrowed, and a band of moisture formed above his thick upper lip. No, this guy was more smarmy than smart.
“I’m afraid I can’t, monsieur.” He’d literally backed her into the hall. She couldn’t even see the guard—and the guard couldn’t see her. “If you’ll excuse me,” she held up her tiny purse as though it could stop him. “I’m certain you can examine the vases from the viewing station, as all the other…” Her gaze dropped pointedly to his media badge, but there was nothing around his neck now. Her throat closed up. “As the other reporters have done.”
“I am not like the others.” He reached into his jacket pocket, and she expected the identification badge to appear. “As you can see.”
The flash of steel kicked a breath out of her lungs. She stared at the knife, and then looked into his eyes.
Lives are at risk, Szha-neen. Your life.
She pivoted on her heel and ran. Another round of applause rose from the Hall of Mirrors, lasting as long as it took her to reach the door to the Library. A sudden, muffled pop in the midst of the clamor halted her midstep.
What was that sound?
The quickening thump of her own heartbeat blocked out the ovation. Behind her, footsteps echoed. She shoved her handbag under her arm and scooped her dress up to her knees. At the end of the hallway were the double doors to the Gaming Room.
The secret passageway.
As she ran, she heard another dull thud. Almost like a gunshot…with a silencer.
Holy, holy hell. What was going on out there?
Blood pumped through her ears as her heel slid on the Gaming Room’s polished parquet floor and caught on the edge of an Oriental carpet. She stumbled to the marble mantel, pounding it as she willed herself to remember the trick to the hidden door.
“Damn. Damn, come on!” The bag slipped out from under her arm as she used both hands to shove a heavy table next to the fireplace aside. Standing in front of the gilded mirror above the mantel, her quick breaths fogged the glass as she jammed her trembling hand behind the frame. She slid her fingers up and down as Luc had. At last she hit a metal dial, and she turned it to the right until it clicked. The paneled wall next to the fireplace opened.
She dove into the darkness of the passageway and jerked the panel back in place. It latched with a definitive clunk, leaving her in the cool blackness of Louis’s safe haven.
Even with a silencer, Luc heard the gunshot and knew the heist had begun. He was already in position in the Council Chamber, behind the ornate closet doors, watching a tiny monitor transmitting video from two different cameras hidden in the king’s bedchamber. At the moment of the thunderous applause, four men approached the door, and with each shot fired, Tristan’s well-rehearsed guards fell as though they hadn’t been wearing bullet-proof vests. Exactly as planned.
From the upper corner of the screen, he could see four men enter the room. Two dragged the guards’ bodies into the room, then left, closing the doors behind them. On watch, no doubt. The two remaining men moved directly to the exhibit. The video was grainy, but he could make out their features well enough to know he’d never seen them before. Of course, he didn’t expect Karim Benazir himself to show up—just his lackeys.
One by one, they rolled the vases in thick burlap. Take care, he silently warned. The longer those Plums stayed intact, the longer they could relay the information he needed. When they’d finished, one of them stared for a moment at the white silk material Luc had insisted be part of the exhibit.
Come on. Draw.
After a moment, the thief pulled out a red marker.
Luc lifted the tiny microphone to his lips as the thief sketched a clumsy scorpion. “Bingo,” he whispered.
“A scorpion?” Tristan sounded almost disappointed, but it could have been the static.
“You hate it when I’m right.”
“I don’t know if you’re right yet.”
“You will soon.” Luc smiled into the microphone. He liked symmetry. And irony. Benazir thought he was luring the Scorpion and getting a priceless treasure at the same time. In truth, the Indian was setting himself up and getting worthless junk vases.
“Don’t screw this up, Luc.”
“Keep your suits away for five days, Tris. Then you’ll get what you want.”
And so would he. Not a full pardon, and no chance of resuming life as Nick Jarrett; the director wouldn’t consider it. But he’d get a new life, a new name, and a new home on American soil. That would be his reward for taking Benazir’s bait and risking his life to get the bastard back in jail.
“You’re gonna need some help,” Tristan warned.
“I’ll call you if I miss you.” Luc had to make Benazir think he was working alone, zealously trying to prove that this new Scorpion was an imposter. If Benazir thought he was working with the FBI, the dethroned prince would vanish. The safety of Switzerland was just a wide, open border away.
Another loud ovation burst from the Hall of Mirrors as the tw
o thieves nonchalantly opened the doors.
“They’re leaving,” Luc said. “They’re outside the chamber with the vases under their arms.”
“Ballsy bastards, aren’t they?”
Luc grinned. It was exactly how he would have done it. No doubt the four of them formed a tight group that hid the vases between them as they strolled out the front door of the palace.
“Hold your position,” Tristan ordered. “Give them plenty of time.”
“I’m leaving now,” Luc announced.
“Just wait a goddamn minute.”
Luc reached into his ear to take the transmitter out, but wasn’t fast enough.
“Your girlfriend is missing.”
“What?” His gut tightened.
“The American curator. She got squeezed out of the speeches and left fuming.”
He swore under his breath. “Was she alone?”
“I saw a reporter hounding her.”
A reporter? Would Janine take a reporter to see the real Plums? Damn, he shouldn’t have shown them to her. But he’d wanted her to be the hero, to produce the real Plums after the “heist.” It was the least he could do after wrecking her big night.
“Why didn’t she give her speech?” He’d thought she’d be safe while all this was going on. She’d be up on the podium, in front of thousands of people and under the watchful eyes of the French Secret Service.
“Seems the museum folks had other ideas.”
The guards on the ground finally stood, evidently getting the “all clear” whispered in their ears from someone else.
“I’m leaving,” he told Tristan. “Give me five days, and I’ll give you Benazir.”
Without waiting for a response, he tugged the ear-piece out and opened the closet doors. He took the side entrance through the king’s privy and into the darkened Clock Chamber, then continued through the connected rooms.
She wouldn’t have taken someone to see the Plums, would she?
The minute he stepped into the Gaming Room, he noticed the table that blocked the panel to the passageway had been moved. He certainly hadn’t left it that way.
Oh, God.
As he approached it, something caught his eye on the Oriental carpet. A small white handbag.
Son of a bitch. She did.
Chapter
Seven
T he brilliant craftsmen of the eighteenth century had managed to create a completely soundproof chamber. Dark and creepy as hell, but safe from that scary little man and his knife.
Janine leaned against the rough wall and gave into the weakness in her legs. Sliding down, she felt the surface snag her silk dress. She closed her eyes and shuddered. She’d lived in L.A. long enough to know the sound of a gunshot, silenced or not.
As her breathing returned to normal and her heart stopped racing, she remembered her purse. Oh, hell. Why didn’t she just leave a sign for the reporter? This way, whacko. Behind the secret door.
What if he found the passageway? Maybe she should go deeper, to where the hallway curved. At least she’d be out of sight if he did get the door open.
She stood unsteadily. Holding out her hands in a classic blind man’s walk, she tiptoed along the stone floor. After what seemed like an eternity of creeping forward, her hands hit the angle of the wall. Yes. The turn. As she began to navigate around it, she heard a scraping sound from behind her, and a soft light glazed the curved wall just as she slipped behind it.
Someone was in the passageway with her.
If that reporter caught her and…Fear skittered down her back. No one would hear her scream. They might never even find her. Her heart hammered so loud, she was sure it would give her away.
Reaching into the darkness, she found the handle of the chapel door, gave it a hard push, and practically tumbled over the threshold into the shadowy church. Closing the door behind her, she kicked off her shoes and snatched them up by the ankle straps. The marble floor chilled her bare feet as she scampered toward the balustrade and looked down into the sanctuary.
“Oh, my God.” She clutched the railing.
Forty feet below, the tabernacle door stood wide open. It was impossible to see inside from her vantage point, so she tripped down the stone steps in the back of the church and ran up the aisle toward the gaping golden case.
No. No.
Her Plums were gone.
She reached the altar, panting for air, searching for an explanation. Luc must have moved them. He’d been gone during the whole reception line. He’d moved them. He had to. What the hell—
“What the hell?”
Janine spun around at the echo of her thoughts and looked straight into the face of Luc Tremont.
White, hot fury exploded in his head. He stared at the empty tabernacle and swore again, not even caring if his French accent was lost. Taking the three stairs in one stride, he jumped the gate and approached the altar.
If Benazir was responsible for the theft upstairs, then who the hell masterminded this one?
“I thought no one else knew they were here.”
He heard the accusation in Janine’s voice, but when he turned, he only saw devastation in her eyes.
“No one did.” Only Tristan. And if he found this hiding place empty, all bets were off.
Tristan would only see that the priceless artifacts, hidden by Luc’s own hand, were missing. A neat confirmation of the suspicion Tristan held for five years: that Nick Jarrett, the former thief turned FBI undercover informant, obviously wasn’t as “rehabilitated” as he claimed.
Luc glared at the spot where the Plums had stood. He could claim he hadn’t led a thief to the vases, but nothing he could say would change Tristan’s convictions. He’d never get his five days. He’d never get Benazir. He’d never get home.
He only had one option. He had to find the vases fast, and return them. Then he could get back on Benazir’s trail. He had five days. He could do it.
“Luc,” he heard Janine say. “We have to get the Plums.”
He ran a hand through his hair and finally focused on her. “I will.”
She’d managed to climb the railing and get behind the altar with him. “How?”
“I placed a tracking device in one of the vases.” He blessed the gut instinct that made him insure against exactly this kind of foul-up.
“Who the hell are you, James Freaking Bond?”
He closed the tabernacle door. “Just doing my job. I’ll find them. You,” he looked at her, “are not going to say a word about this to anyone.”
“What?” She practically spat the word. “Of course I am. This is a serious crime.”
Only one lock remained on the door, and he started to clamp it closed.
She grabbed his arm. “What are you doing?”
“No one needs to know they are missing, Janine.” It would be a while until Tristan even checked their agreed upon hiding place for the real Plums. By then, Luc could have found and returned them. “No one needs to know they’ve ever been taken.”
He saw the doubt darken her eyes. “Why wouldn’t we tell the police about this? How could you, Mr. God’s-Answer-to-Security, not report this?”
“Because by the time the French police and gendarmerie and DST untangle their red tape and figure out who’s supposed to investigate this, your Plums will be so deep into the underground that you won’t see them for another two hundred years.” He scanned the marble floor for the other lock.
“And how will you know they’re the real Plums once you find them?”
“I’ll know. I’ve got a track—”
She grabbed his shoulder. “I’m going with you.”
He stared at her for a second, noting the fire in her eyes and the set to her jaw. Then he lifted the altar cloth to see if the lock had fallen under there. “No, you’re not.”
“Oh, yes I am.” She shook the cloth out of his hand.
“Forget it.”
Her expression softened to a plea. “I won’t be able to live with myself if
anything happens to those Plums, Luc.”
Was she serious? “Look, you have no idea what you’re getting into. No idea what just went on upstairs. There was another theft. The forgeries were stolen. Guards were shot.” Not hurt, but she didn’t need to know that now.
“All the more reason for me to go with you. The cops will be focused on that theft, and there will be two sets of vases out there, and only I can tell good from bad.” She looked so damn pleased with her logic. Which, he had to admit, was sound.
“I work alone,” he said simply, turning away to search for the missing lock.
“So where should I tell the police you went, after you—supposedly the only person who knew where the real vases were—discovered they were missing?”
He stopped hunting and glared at her. “You won’t tell them anything.”
“Not even that you”—she pointed to the tabernacle—“destroyed the evidence?”
He scowled. “What are you saying?”
“That I can make you look guilty as hell.” She held onto the altar for balance as she calmly slipped a shoe on one foot. “You need me.” She slipped on the other shoe.
A siren wailed outside and someone shouted. Damn it, every exit would be blocked by police and security in a matter of minutes. He didn’t have time to negotiate with a willful woman, but leaving her behind would guarantee Tristan would discover the missing vases.
He took one last look at the tabernacle and grabbed her hand. “You’d better be able to run.”
Before she could ask why, he rushed her out the exit he knew was concealed under the sixth station of the cross.
From his penthouse suite in a far corner of the Royal Parc Evian hotel, Karim Benazir lifted his head from the massage table and stared at the serene waters of Lake Geneva. But he didn’t see the moonlight dancing over the famed crescent-shaped body of water, or the reflection of Evian-les-Bains’ glittering casino lights. He was picturing the events taking place three hundred and fifty miles away in another luxurious setting. He had the best people in the world working in Versailles, but still, he longed to be in the middle of the action.
French Twist Page 7