The Paris Caper

by Nina Bruhns

  Her jaw dropped. Half a million... “Good lord,” she breathed.

  “Take it,” Jean-Marc said. “I’ll give it all to you, every centime.” He paused for the exclamations from the onlookers to die down. “On one condition.”

  She went absolutely still. Inside she quailed at the icy chill in his blue eyes.

  Suddenly she wanted to kill him. Why couldn’t he have made this offer, along with whatever impossible condition he had in mind, a dozen years ago? When the money would have made a difference, and the condition be a possibility? Now it was too late.

  Eleven fifty-four.

  Far too late.

  “What condition is that?” she asked, her pique cooling to sad resignation.

  “You must leave with Pierre. Right now. This very minute. Go straight to Paris, stopping for nothing.”

  She stared at him. Somehow sensing the real blow was yet to come. “And you?”

  His eyes met hers, black and remorseless. “You’ll never see me again.”

  The crowd gasped theatrically. Hollywood stars and moguls of the silver screen, confronted by genuine drama.

  Ciara straightened. And lifted her chin.

  She didn’t know what hurt more, the thought of never seeing Jean-Marc again, or the knowledge that he must think so little of her.

  “An interesting offer,” she said. “But why not make it even more interesting? Double or nothing.”

  He frowned. “What?”

  “Bet it all,” she said, gesturing back at the game, struggling not to let the deluge of emotions show. “Everything on one hand. If you win, I get both you and the money. If you lose, I leave, never to darken your door again.”

  His eyes flared in shock. “You’d risk that?”

  “No risk,” she said, throat aching. “Right now I have neither you nor money. What do I have to lose?”

  He didn’t answer.

  They both knew he had the power to throw this hand by choice. Winning was less certain, but his record so far was testament enough to his skill at swaying the odds in his favor.

  Which would he choose?

  Eleven-fifty-seven.

  “D’accord,” he said, face impassive, and turned back to the table. He nodded to the dealer. “All of it. Double or nothing.”

  The crowd cheered madly. The casino manager and pit boss, as well as two security guards descended to stand behind the dealer. The manager looked grim.

  Ciara could barely focus as the cards were dealt, let alone have a prayer of counting up Jean-Marc’s—even if he showed them to her. Which he didn’t.

  The onlookers groaned as the dealer turned up his cards. A four and a three. What did that mean? She squeezed her eyes shut. Hell. Why hadn’t she paid more attention to the rules?

  When it was his turn, Jean-Marc gave the signal to pass. Stone-faced, he watched the rest of the players complete the round, ending with the dealer, who turned up a five. The crowd groaned louder.

  She tried to add up four plus three plus five, but her mind froze. Twelve? Thirteen?

  Did it matter?

  The dealer reached for his next card. Everyone held their breath. He turned an eight. A chorus of ambiguous exclamations came from the throng.

  Ciara resorted to her fingers. Did that make over twenty-one? She couldn’t think.

  One by one, the other players showed their hands, winners happily, losers tossing them down in disgust.

  All attention turned to Jean-Marc.

  She couldn’t bear it. “Please, for the love of God, turn them over,” she pleaded.

  The crowd hushed.

  Eleven-fifty-nine.

  He lifted his cards and started turning.

  Abruptly, an earsplitting whistle shattered the silence. A claxon sounded, and a shout was heard. “The Egg! The Fabergé Egg! It’s gone!”

  Another yell came immediately after. “The Monet! It’s also been stolen!”

  Jean-Marc’s hand froze in mid-air. His head whipped around and his eyes lasered in on hers. “Non,” he growled. “I don’t believe it.”

  “Jean-Marc, I—” Her chest constricted with pain. She wanted stop the flow of time. So she could explain.

  Then all hell broke loose. From nowhere, dozens of uniformed men appeared, converging on the nearby display area. The crowd roiled, straining at once to see Jean-Marc’s cards as well as whatever was going on.

  And still Jean-Marc’s eyes drilled into hers, throwing sparks of fury. She shook her head.

  “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.

  Chapter 29

  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, passi
ng 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 Val
ois,” 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.

  “Shall we do this?” Valois prompted.

  “I’ll need to see the money first,” Villalobo said silkily, beckoning over one of the gorillas, who produced a small wireless computer and set it on the green felt of the table.

  “Naturellement.” Valois went to it and typed for a minute, until the screen filled with account information from a well-known Swiss bank. “As you can see, it’s all there.”