She glowered at him. “Get your life back, maybe. My life will be the same as ever. Men tramping in, walking all over me and buggering off.”
“What do you mean? Are you talking about me?” He leaned forward. “Have I tramped all over you and buggered off?”
“We only met this morning, you haven’t had the chance yet.”
Piers clenched his jaw and breathed out hard. “Thank you very much, but don’t evade the question. I want to know, Sidney. Did you send a message to someone?”
Sidney stood up, crossed behind his chair and pulled the tube from beside him. She shook it in his face. “You don’t know what this is or what it means to some people.”
“So you do know something about it.”
“I know enough to know it can’t be replaced. I know enough to know some people would be heartbroken if they knew it had been taken. I know enough to know what’s important to a country’s heritage.”
“What are you talking about? Is this some kind of set up? Have you just been using me to find this painting?” He reached for the tube. She stepped away, whipping it behind her back. “All you care about is giving it to some murderous mob boss to save your own skin.”
He stared in her eyes. “I’m trying to save yours too, if you hadn’t noticed.”
“Yeah, right. Deflect the blame to keep your conscience happy. Just like you do with your mother—and probably everyone else you know.”
“I do not—”
Sidney turned and ran from the restaurant. He jolted to his feet, sending his chair flying across the floor. He saw the maître ‘d heading in his direction. He fumbled some notes from his wallet, threw them on the table, and ran after Sidney.
He stepped out onto the sidewalk and saw two large men holding Sidney, one arm apiece. She was still, but her eyes burned into Piers’.
A man in a cream suit stepped forward. “I believe this is mine.” He yanked the tube from Sidney’s hands. She gave a faint “No,” without looking at him.
“Morel?” said Piers.
The man turned to Piers. “So, you’re her lover, the one that helped steal this from me.”
“We didn’t steal it.”
The man sneered. “Non, non, of course you didn’t. You and this girl just happened to know where to find it … when my men tore this town apart looking for it and turned up nothing.”
“It’s not yours, anyway,” said Sidney.
“Oh, I believe it is. I paid for it.”
“You can’t. It can’t be bought, it’s part of our national heritage.”
The man huffed. “Our national heritage? You mean your national heritage.”
Sidney struggled against the men holding her and they redoubled their grips.
Piers glanced from Sidney to the boss. “National heritage?”
The boss smiled at him. “How precious. Lover boy doesn’t know.” He gave a sneer, “She’s not French, she’s an immigrant, an illegal immigrant, in case you’re wondering, which is why she didn’t want to go to the police: because they would have locked her up in an instant.”
Piers looked at Sidney. “Really?”
Sidney’s face froze, her lips parted and her eyes focused inches in front of her. She shuffled her weight from one foot to another. “Still not yours. It isn’t anyone’s to sell.”
The man tapped the tube. “Sell? I wasn’t selling. I paid for it. I bought this from your conniving dictator. Which brings us to my other interest.” He turned to Piers, “Where did you claim to find this?”
Piers stiffened. “In Auguste’s car. We worked out th—”
“Show me the car.”
Piers glanced at Sidney, but she was looking up and down the street. Was she thinking of running? The two guys had a very firm grip on her, but maybe she was hoping to get free when they were walking? These guys had to be carrying guns, and Piers didn’t fancy the idea of sprinting away from a hail of bullets.
The boss leaned forward, bringing his face inches from Piers’. His breath was filled with garlic and his eyes bored into Piers’. “I said, show me the car.”
Piers took a deep breath, and led them back to the dead end. He looked down the dimly lit road. It was an ideal hangout for muggers, only they were already hostages. He glanced behind and saw the boss, and behind him Sidney between the two men. What if Sidney did try to run? Would she get far? Maybe if she dodged between the cars so they wouldn’t have a clear shot. He licked his lips. If she ran, he would jump the men. Even a few moments’ distraction would probably be enough for her to disappear into the crowds on the main road.
Sweat trickled down his back. He wriggled to get his shirt to soak up his fear. Why did this guy want to see the car? Did he think he would find something else? What else could there be? Another painting? And what would Morel do if he did find something?
Piers stopped by the car.
“Open it,” said the Morel.
Piers popped the handle and the door opened with a tinny clank.
Morel pushed past him and sat in the driver’s seat. He looked over the glove box and rummaged in the central storage area. He twisted himself over to look under the seats, checked the rear of the car, then stepped out and glowered at Piers. “So where is—”
Piers heard weird ticking sounds behind him. As he rotated to look, Sidney screamed. One of the men holding her was falling to the ground, blood pouring down his face. The other man was already face down on the sidewalk.
Piers leapt for Sidney. “Get down!” He shoved her into the side of the dumpster and onto the ground. She rolled, wrestling herself free of his grip. He heard boots pounding on the sidewalk and prayed it was the police.
Sidney stood up. Piers dived after her. The giant he had knocked down with the motorbike appeared around the corner of the yellow dumpster. Piers couldn’t stop. The man threw one arm around Sidney and the other into Piers’ face. The man’s clenched fist smashed into his right cheek. Piers’ head jerked backward and pain bloomed across his face. His momentum lifted him into the air, his arms thrashing in circles. His body hammered down on the sidewalk, squeezing every last gasp of air from his lungs.
He rolled onto his side, struggling to breathe and clutching his ribs. His face felt on fire and his head felt as if it was being shaken with a jackhammer. Another large man appeared behind Morel, and a third man in a long coat stepped in between them.
“You bastard,” Morel said.
“Now, now,” said the man in the long coat.
“President Brunwald,” said Sidney.
Piers looked at the man in the long coat and back at Sidney. “You know him?” He felt another force grip his chest. President Brunwald? Brunwald? As in Brunwald the Butcher? The tyrant of Elbistonia?
Coughing, Piers rolled onto his knees. The giant holding Sidney pointed a large gun at him. “Don’t even think about it.”
Piers rolled back onto his side.
“Thank god you arrived,” Sidney said, as she tried to worm free of the man’s grip. “They were about to get away with the painting.”
Piers glowered at Sidney.
“Your message reached us just in time, my dear,” Brunwald said.
“You work for him?” Piers said.
Sidney glanced at him. “At least he’s trying to recover our country’s history, not sell it off like the man you work for.”
“I don’t work for anyone.”
“Yeah, right, Mr. Waterloo construction guy. For a software engineer you did a great impression of Sherlock Holmes finding that painting.”
“I—”
“That’s enough,” Brunwald said. He pulled the tube from the Morel’s hands. “I believe this is mine.”
“You took my money,” Morel said.
Brunwald shook his head. “Your man, Auguste, he took the money, not me. He tried to double cross us both, and failed.”
“Auguste would never double cross me.”
“Really.”
“He worked for me for twelve years. He never cheated, nev
er disobeyed an order, and definitely never tried to take what wasn’t his. Hell, he never even asked for a raise.”
“And let me guess, you never offered one either?”
Morel shrugged. “Why give someone something they haven’t asked for?”
“So you were paying him the same for twelve years, and you don’t see a problem with that?”
“I don’t need some trumped-up dictator like you to tell me how to run my business.”
Brunwald’s face hardened. He spoke slowly. “Don’t ever tell a trumped-up dictator that.”
He turned back to Sidney and smiled. Behind him there was a small, sharp chug. The side of Morel’s face exploded, splattering flesh and blood over Auguste’s car.
Piers watched Morel slump sideway to the ground. He saw Sidney’s eyes following, too. She looked at Brunwald, her mouth open as if to speak, but Brunwald waved a finger. “He was a constant thorn, my dear.”
She swallowed. “You … killed … him.”
“A precaution, my dear.”
Brunwald turned to one of his men. “Get rid of them and search the car.”
Sidney’s mouth hung open. “You shot them.”
Brunwald gave a sympathetic smile. “A necessary evil, I’m afraid. They were the worst of the worst, in many ways.”
“But you shot them?”
“They were greedy, my dear. That man wanted the painting and hoped to cheat his way out of paying for it. So now, he’s paid for it.”
She shook her head. “But you don’t want anyone to pay for it. You said you wanted to save the painting, to take it home, back to Elbistonia. For the country.”
Brunwald placed his finger over his lips. Sidney’s mouth kept moving, but no sound came out.
Brunwald’s men threw the bodies into the giant dumpster, then turned to Auguste’s car. They ripped out the seats, the carpets, and the dashboard. They tore the interior door panels out, peered into the engine compartment, and slashed open the tires. When they finished they stuffed the debris back into the car and slammed the doors. The giant shook his head. Brunwald pursed his lips and looked at Piers and Sidney.
Piers took a step forward. “We had nothing to do with those people. I’m just—”
Brunwald held his hand up. “I know, I know. A software engineer from England. Caught in a terrible mix-up. A real boo-hoo tragedy. And you’re worried, quite correctly, that your life is in danger. It isn’t a good story . . . but we may still be able to find a happy ending.”
Sidney’s mouth stopped moving and she regained her power of speech. “But we found the painting. It’s in the tube. You have it.”
“Yes, my dear. You’ve been invaluable in regaining the painting. You and your lover.”
“I’m not her lover,” said Piers.
Brunwald place a finger across his lips. “Both of you have served me well. There’s just one more thing.”
“But you wanted to recover the painting,” Sidney said, “To take it back home, Elbistonia, where it belongs.”
Brunwald gave a soft laugh. “My dear, my country is going to rack and ruin. Discipline is failing in the police and the armed services. There have been riots. People have been killed. Government buildings have been attacked. My own car was blown up. I am only thankful it was my wife, and not me, in it.”
Brunwald crossed his hands behind his back. “No, there is no going back. I have done my utmost to serve my country. To bring order where there was chaos, and what do I get in return? Awards? Honors? Recognition? The thanks of a grateful nation? No, my dear. I have received none of these things. Not from Elbistonia, nor the international community. Therefore, there is only one thing left for me to do. Retire gracefully.”
“But the painting.”
“The painting is worthless.”
Sidney looked puzzled. “It’s a fake?”
“No, my dear. It is the real thing. However, I am forced to move quickly. I really must leave Europe for a country with, shall we say, less interest in extradition.
“So, you see, I don’t actually want the painting. No, no, no. What I want is the money.” He pointed to the dumpster. “The money that gentleman was going to pay for it.”
“But you said you were looking for the painting to return it.”
Brunwald forced his lips together into a thin flat line. “You are becoming something of a bore, my dear. I no more want the painting than I need either of you two alive.”
Piers inched toward Sidney. One of the dictator’s men pointed a silenced pistol at him and shook his head with a sneer. Piers froze.
“However.” The dictator stepped toward Piers “It occurs to me that you have done well to find the painting, and I am a fair man. So, I will give you until midday tomorrow to find the money.”
“We don’t have it,” Piers said.
“So you say.” Brunwald nodded to the giant holding Sidney. “You’ve met Kuznik, I believe. He isn’t well known for his compassion. Or his patience.”
The man pushed the barrel of his gun into the soft flesh under Sidney’s chin. She gagged and squirmed. The man yanked her hair back until she stopped fighting.
Brunwald patted Piers on the shoulder. “You are a resourceful young man. I suggest you make a greater effort in your search. And be warned: if I have any indication you have contacted the police.” Brunwald drew a finger across his throat. “You get the idea, I think.”
Piers’ heart pounded as if it was trying to jump from his chest, making his voice tremulous. “But we’ve searched his apartment, his safety deposit box, and his car. You’ve even searched his car. We haven’t seen a hint of any money. What do you expect us to do?”
Brunwald smiled at Piers. “Why, find it, Mr. Chapman, find it. You have until midday tomorrow. No more. If you are unsuccessful, we will be forced to deposit your girlfriend outside Notre Dame. And I emphasize deposit.”
“But I don’t know where this money is. I haven’t got a clue. There’s nothing I can do. You can’t be serious.”
“I think you will find I am quite serious.” Brunwald rapped his knuckles on the dumpster. “I would suggest you ask the previous people we dealt with on this issue but, of course, they are unavailable for comment.”
Sidney squirmed away from the gun in her throat. “You bastard.”
Brunwald laughed. “If, by that, you mean you have been foolish and gullible, and have undermined anything you and lover boy might have achieved together, my dear, you are correct. Your information has been invaluable. You were easily manipulated, but don’t think badly of yourself. I have manipulated better people than you just as easily.”
Brunwald’s Mercedes tore down the street, J-turned, and came to a stop beside him. Kuznik forced Sidney into the back, and Brunwald seated himself in the front.
Sidney leaned over Kuznik and looked up at Piers. She was biting her lip and tears streamed down her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean … I didn’t know …” She wiped her nose on her sleeve. “You must hate me.”
Piers’ mouth hung half open. His face felt numb. His eyes were frozen, staring at her, yet almost unable to see her. “No. Not hate. I didn’t . . .” He shook his head and forced his jaw to move and his voice box to speak. “I didn’t do this . . . any of it . . . not because I hate you.”
Her lower lip trembled. He reached for her and she stretched out her hand, but Kuznik yanked it back and closed the window. Piers watched Sidney dissolve into tears.
Brunwald tapped his watch. “Midday,” he flicked a card out of his window. “Don’t be late.”
Piers glimpsed a phone number as the card fluttered to the sidewalk, and the car raced away.
Chapter 22
Piers paced away from Notre Dame. People veered around him as if his shock was somehow contagious. He crossed two roads without looking before a car’s horn pulled him up. He stood in front of the vehicle, gawping as the driver waved his fist at him. He stumbled back onto the sidewalk as the car screeched away, and stood on
the curb, oblivious to the traffic inches from him.
They had taken her. Pushed her into their car and driven her away. Had she been working for Brunwald all along? Had she been playing him? The smile, the hugs, the moments in the shower? Was it all part of a plan that he had been stupid enough to fall into? Or had Brunwald used her as he was trying to use them both now? If you could call threatening her life using.
He sighed. He remembered the moment in Place des Vosges when she stepped out of the dressing room wearing that dress. How it shimmered and danced around her figure. How she embraced him as they hid from the police behind the umbrella. He let out a single breathy laugh, but felt like he had been punched in the gut. She had been maddening, infuriating, moody. Yet, she had been exciting, vibrant, and thrilling. She was heartbreaking, and heartbreakingly beautiful. He should have said as much to her. He should have told her of his feelings. He should have risked that embarrassment. But he hadn’t even known his own feelings. Not then; only now. But nothing mattered now. They had taken her. She was gone.
He leaned against the window of a store and rolled his head back. Shit. They’d found the painting and still Brunwald had taken her. Somehow, he’d duped her. Her text messages must have been reporting their progress. That bastard must have known everything. He’d had the upper hand all the time, and Piers hadn’t even known he existed. He had even waited until the mob to showed up, so he could dispense with them without a second thought. Piers swallowed. He didn’t want to find her body in front of Notre Dame.
A fine drizzle misted his face. The drops glittered in the street lamps, a sparkling carpet in the air. The foot traffic on the streets was thinning, the evening rush hour waning. Fewer people for him to hide among, fewer people to spot him. He walked toward the river, head down, sheltering from the rain.
His only way to get her back was to find the money Morel was going to hand over for the painting. But how? What clues did he have?
He crossed another street, barely looking at the traffic.
There was always the police. Even though Brunwald had warned him against going to them, it was the sensible idea. It was the idea they should have gone with at the start. His idea. The police could have sorted all this out, even if they had been placed in cells until it was done. Being in a cell with a bed and three meals a day was a much better prospect than being wanted on the streets with—he swallowed—her being held hostage.
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