THE PARIS HEIST

LUKE RICHARDSON

ERNEST DEMPSEY

PROLOGUE

Paris, France. Eight years ago.

The explosions rattled across the sky, roaring down across the city’s rooftops. Another detonation fizzed, shrieked, and then blasted into a cacophonous boom that shook the heavens. Shards of lights pierced the darkness, hovered for a second and then fell toward the ground.

The Eiffel Tower stood in the centre of it all, its illuminated steel shimmering across the surface of the Seine and the frosty bark of the leafless trees. Moments ago, the tower had flashed as the mixed crowd of Parisians and tourists counted down the remaining ten seconds of the year. Now, in the first moments of a new one, fireworks spurted and shot from the structure, as well as from balconies and yards across the city.

Benedict Moreau glanced at a color-filled flower spanning the heavens. The light shimmered for a moment and then dissolved into black. The surrounding crowd muttered and cheered. Moreau remained silent. To be honest, he didn’t really understand fireworks. Moreau had seen enough explosions in his forty-two years that filling the sky with them on New Year’s really wasn’t necessary.

Moreau weaved around two small children chomping through giant bags of chocolates and headed away from the crowd. He wouldn’t have chosen to visit the display at all. But with the level of security around the world-famous tower for the celebration, he was bound to be picked up by several of the cameras. That was his alibi, should he ever be questioned. Moreau hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but it always paid to be careful.

Moreau passed a man roasting chestnuts on a small cart. The sickly, sweet smell filled the air for a moment, reminding Moreau of the long childhood afternoons he’d spent learning the trade from his aunt. Short-cons and picking-pockets mostly, but you had to start somewhere. Moreau pushed the faded memories from his mind and slipped further into the crowd. The smell of the roasting chestnuts was replaced by the heavy, fruity perfume of a woman in a fur coat.

Another firework ripped through the sky, fizzing and popping from one side of the city to the other. Moreau used the diversion to glance skyward and check for security cameras. If his calculations were correct, and they usually were, then right here he was unseen. The two cameras he could see were both pointing in the opposite directions.

In one swift movement, Moreau slipped off his jacket and flipped it inside out. He pulled a baseball cap from his pocket and pulled it down low over his face. Then, rubbing a hand across his face, his gray beard became black.

The light of the firework died overhead, sinking the sky into darkness. The rat-tat-tat of smaller explosions thumped across the city.

Moreau stepped from the shadows and ambled his way nonchalantly toward the river. The dark-jacketed Frenchman who had slipped into the celebration half an hour ago was now gone. To any interested observers, Moreau had now become a tourist. An American, in fact, complete with a New York Yankees baseball cap, a guide to Paris tucked beneath his arm, and a camera strung around his neck.

Moreau felt the familiar surge of excitement he got every time he was about to go to work. It was as though his heart beat with more conviction than usual. Benedict Moreau was about to do what he did best. He was about to steal a priceless painting from right beneath the noses of those in charge of keeping it safe.

But Benedict Moreau wasn’t a thief. At least, he didn’t think of himself as a thief. Thief was such a dirty word. Thief had connotations of imbeciles pulling stockings over their heads and running into banks with sawed-off shotguns. That wasn’t Moreau’s style at all. Nor was that his motivation. He rarely took something for personal gain. Okay, there had been a few instances when he was just a young man, but everyone made mistakes when they’re young, right?

No, Benedict Moreau stole when it was the right thing to do. He returned artifacts to where they belonged. Sometimes this meant giving them to public collections, repatriating them with the artist’s descendants, or returning them to the person who commissioned the work. Tonight, however, it meant giving someone something they deserved. Something they could never hope to obtain through “traditional” means.

Moreau crossed Pont d’Iéna and turned to face the Eiffel Tower. On either side of the nineteenth-century bridge, boats sat in the still waters of the Seine. Moreau raised his camera and took a few photos of the gleaming tower, just to keep up appearances. He ambled on, turning right on to the Avenue de New York. Cars sat nose to tail on the highway, inching forward, belching great clouds of blue exhaust fumes into the frosty night.

Moreau covered the two blocks to the Musée d'Art Moderne quickly. Having paced out the journey several times, he knew exactly how long it would take. He jogged across the road between waiting cars and then disappeared down a side street. In one fluid movement, he swung himself over the waist-high fence, which sectioned off the staff parking area. Only three cars occupied the lot at this time of night.

Moreau smiled. He had it on good information—one-hundred-thousand euros’ worth of information — that only three members of security would be at the museum tonight. The festive period, combined with growing tensions between unions and employers, had left the museum terribly understaffed. Terrible for them, Moreau thought, but good for me.

Keeping in the shadows, Moreau ran the length of the lot and ducked in behind a small shipping container. He stripped off his jacket and cap. Beneath, he wore dark trousers and a long-sleeve top. He pulled on gloves and a woollen hat, which he rolled right down to his eyes. He peered out from behind the container. Two cameras monitored the museum’s side wall. At exactly quarter past midnight, those cameras would be unmonitored for forty-five seconds as the images cycled through the screens inside the monitoring station. In this game, the devil and God, was in the details.

Moreau glanced at his watch. Thirty seconds to go. His calf muscles tensed in preparation to run. He sank into a crouch, like a sprinter on the blocks. Moreau checked his gloves, pulling them tight. The second hand reached its zenith, and Moreau exploded into action. He darted across the parking lot and reached the wall in less than ten seconds. He grabbed hold of a steel drainpipe and shimmied upward with practiced efficiency.

He reached the top and swung himself up onto the rooftop. He glanced at his watch—he had made the climb with time to spare. Moreau climbed to his feet, the expansive flat rooftop spreading out before him. The sound of celebration echoed through the night. A heavy bassline thumped from a passing boat.

Remembering the internal layout of the building, Moreau stalked to the right. His breathing slowed back to its normal rate. He crept behind a large air-conditioning pipe, shielding him from the surrounding buildings. Moreau reached a row of windows set into the roof and peered inside. The museum was lit in an eerie red glow designed to reduce the damaging effects of bright light on the fragile artwork.

Several canvasses adorned the far wall. Moreau recognized the blotchy shapes of a de Vlaminck. The piece he sought was in the next gallery. Keeping as low as possible, he scrambled to the next set of windows and peered inside. This gallery was lit like the last. It took him several seconds to see the piece he wanted. When he did, a smile curved his lips. He rubbed his hands together. The work hung there in the half light, as though waiting for him to take it.

Moreau removed a small pry bar from his backpack. He pushed the tool beneath the window and jimmied it open. These windows caused no end of problems, Moreau’s contact had told him. Sometimes they even came open in strong winds. The issue had been reported to management several times, but nothing had been done to fix them.

Again, lucky for me, Moreau thought, flipping the window open.

Moreau felt the warm, dry air of the gallery stream out. He listened closely. No alarms shrieked. No sirens wailed. No footsteps pounded his way. So far, so good.

Moreau removed a length of rope from the bag. He anchored the rope to the foot of a nearby air vent, then pulled on it hard to test the strength of the fixing. It didn’t move.

Moreau stuck his head through the window and listened again. The gallery was silent. He dropped the rope through the window and then lowered himself inside. He dropped silently to the floor and paused in a crouch. His muscles stood rigid, ready to run or fight. Probably to run. Fighting was a last resort. No one came his way.

He padded across the gallery and looked up at the painting. Picasso’s Dove with Green Peas. For a moment, the chaotic beauty of the thing struck him—no wonder she wanted it.

He reached up. His gloved hands hovered over the painting. For a fraction of a second, he wondered if his information was correct. Was the alarm really out of action? So far, it had been all too easy. All too perfect.

Moreau swallowed. The parched air clawed at his throat, like talons grabbing at their prey. So far, his information had been good. Moreau slowly, carefully, lifted the painting from the wall. He paused, listening. Still, no alarm sounded.

He rested the priceless Picasso against the wall and dug a black canvas bag from his pocket. He slid the painting inside the bag and zipped it up. The bag’s microfiber interior would protect the painting from any knocks or scratches.

Moreau walked back across the room and tied the bag to the rope. He climbed up the rope and back out through the window. From the roof, he pulled the bag containing the painting up and out.

Moreau stood up carefully and looked around. The din of the city continued as it had before. Somewhere nearby, the engine of a motorbike rumbled and then faded into the city.

Moreau removed the rope and coiled it beneath his arm. He slipped the pry bar back into his backpack, put the backpack on, and then closed the window. He crossed the roof carefully, the painting tucked under one arm. He waited for the cameras monitoring the side wall to go offline again and then used the rope to lower the painting to the ground, before scrambling down after it.

Less than a minute later, Moreau waited in the shadows of the building next door. The traffic on Avenue de New York dragged on more smoothly now. A dark-colored sedan bumped up the curb beside him. The passenger window slid down. Moreau stepped from the shadow and placed the bag containing the painting on the passenger seat.

“Make sure she gets it tonight, okay?” he said to the driver.

“Will do.” The driver closed the window and pushed back into the snarling traffic.

Once back within the crowds around the Eiffel Tower, Moreau removed his disguise. He deposited the cap, camera, and guidebook in a bin. He was now, as he had been before, a black-clad Parisian, out enjoying the fireworks.

He looked up, giving a nearby camera a clear view of his face. As far as they could tell, he had been here all along. He glanced at his watch. Just under twenty minutes had passed.

He turned and wound his way off into the city. It was time for a drink.

1

Paris Central Prison, Present Day.

If he was honest, Benedict Moreau still didn’t know how they’d caught him. It had all gone to plan. He’d got in, liberated the painting, and then got out. The job had been easy. Maybe that had been the problem—maybe it was a little too easy.

Anyway, they had got him fair and square. Once Moreau was arrested, his inside man had squealed like a trapped animal. It seemed like the police couldn’t shut the guy up. He told them the whole thing. Never mind, Moreau reflected as the prison’s heavy door creaked open. He’d been angry at first, but he’d had a lot of time to come to terms with his anger. That was one of the good things about his time inside, Moreau thought wryly. He’d come to terms with many things.

Moreau played with the collar of his shirt. It felt loose now. He must have lost weight while he was inside, too. Maybe that was another good thing.

The doors creaked open farther, giving Moreau his first unobstructed view of the outside in almost a decade. Moreau squinted in the sunlight. The warmth on his face felt strange. He fished a pair of sunglasses from his pocket and put them on.

“Good luck,” said the guard, standing behind him. “I hope I don’t see you again.”

Moreau turned, a grin lighting his face. He’d got to know each of the men who worked on his wing. Several of them he’d actually liked. Contrary to the documentaries in which prison guards and the inmates always seem to be in a state of conflict, Moreau’s experience was almost the opposite.

“I’ll do my best,” Moreau said, stepping forward and almost imperceptibly shaking his head.

“And Moreau,” the guard said, his voice raised against the sounds of the city, which now flooded in through the open door. “You don’t fancy telling us where the painting is, do you?”

Without a word, Moreau waved and stepped out into the bright Parisian morning.

2

Paris, Present day.

Eden Black glanced in the rearview mirror of her rented Peugeot 208. She’d parked on Rue Messier several hours ago and sat waiting for her target. She grabbed her café au lait from the car’s central console and sipped slowly. Although the coffee had gone cold a long time ago, it still tasted great. She glanced down at the remains of the two pastries she’d demolished. When in Paris, eat like a Parisian, right? She smiled to herself. In that case, she had better find this guy quickly.

Back at home—an RV hidden deep in the English woodland—Eden kept a strict regime of fitness.

She ran several miles each morning, come rain or shine, before combat training in the afternoon. Who needed a gym when nature kept her body in tip top shape? But here in Paris, she realised finishing the coffee, her fitness wouldn’t last long.

Eden noticed a figure stride from the prison’s entrance behind her and almost dropped her coffee. She snagged up her camera and used the telephoto lens to scrutinize the scene behind her. A man, looking as though he was in his early fifties, stepped out into the sunlight and stretched.

Eden snapped several photographs. His height looked about right, although she still couldn’t be sure. The man looked slimmer than in the photos she’d seen, and his hair was now completely white. A few years inside could do that to you, Eden thought, taking several more photographs.

The man turned and looked in her direction. Eden ducked low inside the car and zoomed in farther. She recognized the large dark eyes, the shape of the nose, the gray beard. That’s him; she was certain. Benedict Moreau, Europe’s most notorious art thief, was out.

A red sports car turned into the street. Eden heard the growl of its engine from over a hundred feet away. The car pulled to a stop. Moreau leaned down and peered through the passenger window. He spoke to the driver, gesturing exaggeratedly, before climbing into the car.

Eden slid down in the driver’s seat and held the camera up above her head. As the sports car, a vintage Porsche Carrera, slid past, she took several more photographs. Reaching the end of Rue Messier, the Porsche turned right onto Boulevard Arago.

Eden dropped the camera to her lap and powered up her rental. The engine purred to life. She stepped on the gas, and the tires screeched across the asphalt. The Peugeot shot forward in pursuit of the Porsche.

3

“Come on then; tell me all about it,” Adriana Villa said, as they accelerated away from the prison.

“What is there to say?” Moreau replied from the passenger seat. “I read a lot, sat in my room, met some interesting people.”

“You’re not a changed man?” Adriana said, glancing briefly at the man beside her. “You haven’t realized that everything you’ve done so far is wrong, that now you should spend the rest of your life making up for it?” Adriana enjoyed speaking French. Although it felt similar to her native Spanish, she still struggled with the accent, much to the delight of her French friends.

“Everything I’ve done is wrong? Please,” Moreau said, glancing sideways at Adriana. “Without people like us, there would be no France. We are a country of rebels. Sure, they can take away my freedom, but they can’t stop me from doing what’s right.”

Adriana appreciated the conviction of men like Moreau. What he did was in his blood, as it was in hers. Adriana slowed the Porsche and turned toward Montparnasse. The ugly, dark finger of the Montparnasse tower loomed against the sky. Adriana always thought the tower looked as though it belonged in 1970s Baltimore, rather than here in Paris.

Out of habit, she watched traffic in the rearview mirror. A gold-colored Peugeot made the turn several seconds after them.

“I hear you’ve had an action-packed few years, though,” Moreau said, looking at Adriana. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you.”

“How do you know?”

“I might have been inside, but I wasn’t completely out of it.” Moreau grinned. “There’s more going on in that place than you could imagine.”

The traffic ahead slowed, and Adriana turned down Rue Froidevaux. She glanced in the rearview mirror again. Sure enough, the gold Peugeot followed several seconds later.

“Are you expecting someone?” Adriana said, scrutinizing the car. The Peugeot pulled back before she got a look at the driver.

“No. Don’t be silly. I’ve been out of the game for so long. I don’t think anyone even remembers who I am. Probably just a coincidence.” Moreau flicked his wrist, waving away Adriana’s concerns.

“You can’t be too careful. Plenty of people remember who you are. Don’t worry about that.” Adriana turned another corner, and sure enough, the Peugeot followed. “Hey, you reckon you can still drive this thing?”

Moreau cackled. “I’ve been driving since long before you were born, my love.”

Adriana floored the accelerator and sped away from the Peugeot. The Porsche’s engine growled as they passed three times the narrow road’s speed limit. Hitting the brakes, they slid into a side street and then screeched to a stop.

Adriana climbed out of the Porsche and stepped across to four motorbikes waiting by the curb. She dug a key from her pocket and unlocked one of the bikes. She and some friends kept several bikes at different places around the city for occasions just like this. It was well worth the small investment to know that you were never far from a means of escape. She fetched the helmet from the rear lockbox.

Moreau shuffled into the driver’s seat. “Meet you later, and thanks.” He waved and pulled away. The thick tires screeched against the asphalt, kicking up smoke and dust.

“Now you’re just showing off,” Adriana said, pushing the helmet on and climbing onto the bike. She started the engine just as the golden Peugeot pulled level. Adriana glanced at the driver. It surprised her to see a woman behind the wheel, probably just a couple of years younger than Adriana herself.

Adriana’s curiosity spiked. What business did the woman have chasing Moreau?

The muscles in Adriana’s stomach tightened. This felt like trouble.

4

Paris Police Headquarters.

Sebastián Stellar looked at himself in the cracked washroom mirror. He straightened his tie and then checked his pockets for all the items a detective with the Paris police should have: a notebook and several pens for taking down important notes; his regulation firearm, sitting snugly in its holster at his hip; and finally, his handcuffs, for when he singlehandedly tracked down and arrested the perpetrator of a crime that had baffled the entire department for years.

Satisfied that he had everything a top-class junior detective—no, a top-class detective—should have, Sebastián turned from the mirror and pushed through the door into the department’s busy central corridor. Several officers bustled this way and that. Sebastián rushed to open the door for a woman carrying a pile of paperwork so large she could barely see over it. She hustled through the door without a word of thanks.

“Stellar, in here now!”

Sebastián was at first surprised to hear his name bellowed down the corridor. He spun around, far more flamboyantly than he’d intended, and stared into the grimacing face of one of the department’s lead inspectors.

“I haven’t got all day. You want a cuddle? Go see your mama. We got work to do,” howled Inspector Favreau. The man turned his ham-colored face away from Sebastián and stalked into the conference room. Stellar scuttled after the man and entered the room to a titter of laughter from the other occupants.

A smell of damp and sweat hung thick in the air inside the conference room. Taking a breath of the putrid mixture, Stellar wished they hadn’t banned smoking inside. Sebastián glanced around at the slouched officers, most at least ten years his senior. None offered any sign of welcome.

“Benedict Moreau!” Favreau shouted, pointing at the screen. The pictured man had graying hair and intense dark eyes.

Sebastián recognized him as one of the most successful and elusive art thieves in Europe.

“Today this man got out of prison for stealing this.” Moreau thumbed the remote, and another picture filled the screen. “Picasso’s Dove with Green Peas,” Favreau said, checking his notes. “Nearly ten years ago, I caught the thief, but the painting remains missing.”

“Didn’t he tell you he’d put it in the trash?” one officer interjected, to the amusement of his colleagues.

“And, as I remember, you ordered a search of all the dump trucks in the city. It cost millions,” another added.

“And found nothing!” the first man said again.

Favreau scowled, his lips so tightly knit they looked like an ugly scar. A vein on the side of his head pulsed visibly.

The laughing died down, and Favreau continued. "This gutter rat hiding the spoils of his crime is an embarrassment to the police of France. But now we have a second chance to get the painting back and returned to its rightful place in the museum.”

“How do you know he hasn’t sold it already?” another officer interrupted.

“Money leaves a trace. If he has sold it, he hasn’t got the money. When he goes to get the money, that will lead us to the buyer.”

Favreau spent the next few minutes giving each pair of detectives a task. Some were to go over old evidence, and others were to watch Moreau and analyze his movements.

“Finally, LaRue, you’re with Junior.”

It took Sebastián several seconds to realize that the giant fleshy finger was pointing his way. The man who must have been LaRue groaned dramatically.

“You’re manning the phones. We’ve got a reward for the return of the painting. There are thousands of calls to sort through.”

LaRue groaned as though he were mortally wounded.

Favreau ignored him, flicking the screen back to the picture of Moreau.

The inspector turned and eyed each of the men individually. Sebastián tried not to shudder as the huge bloodshot orbs turned his way. “My gut feeling is that Moreau still has the painting holed somewhere. We’re dealing with a clever, cunning man here. Do not underestimate him.” Favreau pummelled one fist into the palm of the other hand. “We will send this man back to prison along with the people who have been helping him, and we will get the painting back for the people of France.”

5

Eden gripped the wheel of the 208 and revved the engine as hard as she could. She cursed herself for not hiring something with a bit more power. She had just expected to tail the guy, not all-out chase him in his beefy German sports car.

She shot down a narrow street, startling several people sat outside a café. Eden squeezed the brake just enough to slow for the upcoming corner. The car shook, turning hard, just in time to see the Porsche pull out of sight around the next block. Eden opened the throttle again. The engine howled. Parked cars lined both sides of the narrow street, leaving just inches for her to get through.

Eden swung the wheel. The dials on the dashboard strobed into red. The 208 shrieked around the bend. Fortunately, the streets were quiet this morning. The red Porsche shot up the road one hundred feet ahead. She powered past a closed-up café and a row of motorbikes.

Eden noticed a motorbike pull out in her wake.

A delivery truck lumbered from a loading bay, swaying and bumping down the curb. Eden stamped on the brake, slowing the Peugeot moments before colliding with the truck.

“Get out of the way!” Eden shouted, gesturing to the driver.

Eden swung the wheel out to the side and peered around the truck. There wasn’t space to pass on the narrow street. The Porsche turned left, almost two hundred feet ahead. The truck rumbled on, making no signs that it would let her by.

A small street appeared on the left, just wide enough for one vehicle. Large no-entry signs flanked both sides. Eden glanced ahead again. The Porsche had disappeared, and if she didn’t do something quickly, she may never catch up with it.

Eden swung the wheel and turned into the one-way street. Fortunately, no cars were coming the other way. She moved up through the gears, trying to get through the narrow street as quickly as possible.

The sound of another engine vibrated behind the Peugeot. Eden glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a motorbike gaining on her fast. The bike pulled to within inches of the Peugeot’s rear bumper and then accelerated past Eden with just inches to spare.

The bike pulled out in front of Eden and then slowed, forcing Eden to brake. The bike stopped. Eden had to do the same. Eden took her hands from the wheel in astonishment.

“What are you doing? Move out of the way!” she shouted, lowering the window and gesturing at the rider.

The rider slid from the bike and pulled off her helmet. Long dark hair flowed in the breeze. Probably a few years older than Eden, she was trim and lean. The woman turned slowly and walked toward the car.

In a shudder of realization, Eden recognized her. Adriana Villa was one of the leading treasure hunters of the modern world. Although the internet contained scant information about the woman, Eden had broken into a few secure databases to retrieve what little she could. Eden had to admit Adriana was something of an idol to her.

But why Adriana would be in Paris, Eden had no idea.

Eden swallowed, not quite understanding what was happening. She glanced behind her. Fortunately, the road was empty.

Adriana approached the car and swung open the driver’s door.

“What the—” Eden tried to speak.

Adriana lifted her straight from the seat and then pushed her against the car. “Who are you, and why are you following that Porsche?” While Adriana spoke in English, Eden recognized a slight Spanish accent.

Eden leaned back against the car, took a breath, and sized the other woman up.

The slap took Eden by surprise. It stung her cheek, knocking her head to the side.

“Answer me,” Adriana growled, “or next time I’ll use my fist.”

Eden said nothing. She touched her stinging face.

Adriana leaned in to push Eden again. Eden darted to the left and spun around. She lunged forward, striking Adriana on the back of the head and then in the stomach. Adriana didn’t even seem to notice. She turned easily back toward Eden and lurched forward.

Eden parried the first two punches but mistimed the third, which connected with her jaw. Eden’s vision blurred for a moment, and she felt unsteady on her feet.

Adriana pushed her back against the car, again. “You should be more careful picking fights, hermanita,” Adriana sneered, pushing Eden again. “I don’t want to hurt you, but you need to talk.”

Eden ducked to the left and swept her leg out, attempting to knock Adriana off balance. Adriana saw the move coming and stepped backward, sending Eden into a spin. Adriana grabbed Eden in one easy move, twisted her over the roof of the car, and jammed her arms to the breaking point.

Pain shot through Eden’s body like a bolt of lightning. She tried to free herself. Adriana corrected her hold easily and applied more pressure. Eden felt her arm on the verge of breaking. This was the woman who had taken out one of Mexico’s toughest drug lords in less than an hour.

“The missing Picasso,” Eden said, gasping as pain shot through her. “I want to find the painting. It was never recovered. I think Moreau knows where it is.”

Adriana stood silently for a few moments. When she spoke, she did it in a still, calm voice that brushed Eden’s ears. “And why do you think he’ll tell you?” Adriana said.

“I don’t think he’ll tell me. I think he’ll show me. It’s only a matter of time before he goes to where he’s been keeping it all this time. When he does, I’ll be there.”

“Why do you care?” Adriana released the pressure slightly.

“Art deserves to be seen. It’s a tragedy that pieces like that are not enjoyed by the public.”

Adriana abruptly let go, her mind torn from the moment. Adriana stepped away, and Eden slumped to the ground. Eden scrambled up again, rubbing her forearms.

“What’s your name?” Adriana demanded, but her tone felt softer than before.

“Eden. Eden Black. And you’re Adriana Villa?”

Adriana gauged the younger woman for a few heartbeats before answering. Her renown, it seemed, had gone farther than she realized despite the tremendous amount of time and resources she spent trying to keep her activities out of the public eye.

“You recovered the Bellini from Espinoza. People thought that painting was lost forever,” Eden said, talking quickly now. “I’ve no idea how you –”

Adriana raised a hand to silence the younger woman. “That was a long time ago, and it was supposed to be a secret. How did you find out about that?”

“I know people,” Eden shrugged. “You’re looking for the Picasso too.”

“Something like that.”

Eden studied Adriana for ten seconds before saying, “So, now what?”

Adriana pulled out her phone and snapped a picture of Eden. “I’ll find out who you really are, then maybe we’ll talk.” Adriana sent the picture to her research team in Atlanta. Affectionately known as the lab rats, Alex and Tara were the best research team Adriana had ever known. She checked the time. Alex and Tara should just about be awake now too.

“Fine.” Eden shrugged, turning away from Adriana. “If you want to play it that way.”

6

Adriana watched Eden from across the table. The younger woman sipped her drink and looked up toward the bright Parisian sky. There was something about her that seemed familiar to Adriana. Something in Eden’s traits and spirit that Adriana recognised. Maybe, although it pained Adriana to admit it, Eden was a little bit like her a few years ago.

Adriana’s phone buzzed on the table. She snatched it up and opened the message. The team in Atlanta had got to work quickly, running Eden’s picture through their cutting edge facial recognition software. Currently installed at a growing number of locations around the world, these systems proved a constant worry for Adriana. Anonymity was one of her most valuable possessions. In this one instance, however, the technology had proved helpful for her.

“You are Eden Black, British Citizen. Your last known address is a place in Brighton, but that was over five years ago.”

“I move around a lot.” Eden looked around the street nonchalantly.

“You have been to several universities, but never lasted more than a year,”

Eden clicked her tongue. “They couldn’t teach me anything.”

“Funny,” Adriana said, with no humour in her voice. “Considering who your father is.”

Eden’s head whipped around and her eyes bore into Adriana’s.

“Alexander Winslow, the world famous archeologist,” Adriana said. “I’m pretty sure our paths have crossed in the past.”

Eden shrugged. “I stopped using his name several years ago. When people know your family, they act like they know you.”

“Black was your mother’s maiden name?” Adriana wasn’t reading now but making an assumption. In truth, the search had returned very little information. Eden, like Adriana, had obviously worked hard to keep herself out of official records.

“That’s right,” Eden said. The two women locked eyes. “My mother died when I was a child.” Eden swallowed a growing ball of grief. “Have you had your fun now? I can tell that you don’t trust me, and that’s okay.”

Adriana sat up a little straighter, letting a few moments of silence settle between them. Eden’s directness was surprising and impressive. “There are few I trust,” Adriana said. She put her phone down and stirred her coffee. “I would suggest you exercise the same caution. When there’s money involved, people change.”

“That seems like a sad way to live—”

“You need to work on your combat,” Adriana interrupted.

Eden nodded. “I train five times a week when I’m at home.”

“What do you train?”

“A mixture. My teacher is one of the leading mixed martial arts guys in the region. World champion back in the nineties.”

A large man in a gray suit pushed past their table. He examined the two women from behind frameless glasses. Adriana didn’t reply until he was well out of earshot.

“Good. Make sure you practice fighting with weapons, too. You need to be able to disarm someone in less than a second. In this business, you never know what’s coming your way.”

“Absolutely, I will do. Is that how you learned?” Eden asked.

Adriana put the spoon down and looked at Eden. Adriana’s eyes narrowed, searching for any hint of dishonesty. While many people said they were good at judging character, Adriana was good at analyzing character. Generally, it took her less than a second to decide if someone was being honest. She scrutinized Eden for any twitch or reaction, any hint that Eden was here with another motive. She saw nothing.

“Yes,” Adriana said finally. “I started training when I was five. My father made sure of it. Without his efforts, there’s no way I’d be where I am now. Tell me, what was your plan with Moreau?”

“I was hoping to follow him straight from the prison, but someone got in the way of that.”

Adriana took a sip of her coffee. “You’ve got a thing or two to learn about tailing someone. You were way too close.”

“It’s easy to get lost in the city traffic. If I wasn’t close, he would have disappeared within minutes.”

“That is true, but the best way to get anything is using this.” Adriana tapped the side of her skull. “Intelligence outdoes muscle every time.” Adriana picked up a pen and scribbled something on a napkin, then pushed the napkin across to Eden.

“What’s this?”

“If we know his home address, we don’t need to follow him from the prison at all,” Adriana said, climbing to her feet. “We will do twelve-hour shifts each. You go first. Keep a list of everywhere he goes. Make sure he doesn’t see you. Don’t wait for me to turn up, as you won’t see me. Meet back here in three days.”

Eden looked from Adriana to the address and back again.

“Oh, and make sure you give that guy his pen back.” Adriana placed an expensive-looking silver pen on the tabletop and then pointed at the large man who had pushed past them a minute ago.

“Sure, will do,” Eden said, shaking her head slowly. “Maybe it serves the creep right.” She turned back toward Adriana, but she had already disappeared.

7

When Eden arrived back at the café three days later, Adriana was already waiting for her. She sat at the same table outside the café, facing the street. Adriana had no doubt chosen her position carefully to see who walked past. Eden made a mental note to do the same thing in the future.

The last three days had been frustratingly slow. Eden had spent twelve hours of each either watching Moreau’s apartment from the Peugeot or following him on foot. As the minutes stretched into hours, and the hours stretched into days, she’d grown more and more tired.

Eden slid into the seat opposite Adriana. Without even saying hello, Adriana called over a waiter and ordered Eden’s coffee in flawless French.

“How are your languages?” Adriana said.

Eden blinked and leaned back in the chair, not expecting to be greeted with a question. “Urrm, they’re okay, I suppose. I can speak French and German to a good standard. I’m working on Spanish, too.”

“What has Moreau been doing with his newfound liberty, then?” Adriana said in flawless German.

“You learned in Austria, probably Vienna,” Eden replied in the same language.

Adriana tilted her head to the side and then nodded, only just perceptibly. “Close, I spent several months in Salzburg a few years ago.”

Eden locked eyes with Adriana. The older woman’s face betrayed the slightest hint of a smile.

A waiter delivered Eden’s drink wordlessly.

“You should learn Russian and Arabic, too,” Adriana said. “I’ve had a lot of use for them in the last few years. Anyway, to the matter at hand, Moreau.”

Eden pulled out her smartphone and read out the list of places that Moreau had visited in the last three days. Adriana removed an iPad from her bag and tagged the locations on a map of Paris along with the number of times he had visited each one. Adriana then went through her own notes about where the man had been. When they’d finished, Adriana zoomed out, and they examined the map.

“What’s that place?” Eden said, pointing at one place he had visited every day.

“It’s an apartment on Rue Emilie,” Adriana said, zooming in. She switched to street view, and a picture of a traditional Parisian building filled the screen.

“Yes, I remember him visiting that place. He stayed less than an hour and walked to and from each time. The first time, he took flowers.” Eden tapped at her phone, then showed Adriana a picture of Moreau holding a bunch of colorful blooms.

Adriana peeled two notes from a wrap of euros and slipped them beneath the coffee cup, then climbed to her feet.

“Let’s go and check it out,” Adriana said, climbing to her feet.

Eden gulped down her coffee and also climbed to her feet. “By the way, you were right. I never saw you turn up after I’d been watching Moreau for twelve hours. I even stayed another hour on one day to see if I could see you.”

Adriana’s smile returned a little more obviously this time. “I was there,” she said, leading them away from the café.

8

“Delivery for flat ten. Can you buzz me in, please?” Adriana said. The distorted voice on the other end of the phone grumbled, then hung up. The door buzzed, and the two women slipped through the door of the building opposite the one Moreau had visited several times.

It had taken twenty minutes to walk from the café to Rue Emilie.

In contrast to the grand exterior, the building’s lobby was dusty and dank. A staircase in discolored marble spiralled around a rickety birdcage lift. Eden was pleased to see Adriana take the stairs. It wasn’t worth the risk of getting stuck in a place they weren’t supposed to be.

Adriana took the stairs quickly, almost jogging. Although Eden was fit, she felt her heartbeat increase with the exertion. Her fitness needed to improve; Eden decided. When she got home, she would double her training efforts.

Fortunately, they didn’t pass any of the building’s residents on the way up, although Eden heard a dog yapping from behind one of the doors.

Adriana reached the top floor and paused, her hands resting on her hips. “There,” she said, pointing at a hatch set into the ceiling. “Help me up.”

Eden gave Adriana a lift, and within a few moments, Adriana had pulled back the bolts, swung the hatch open, and scrambled up. Adriana then leaned down and gave Eden a lift.

Eden climbed through the hatchway and stood. She paused for a moment to look at the view. On one side, the blue-gray zinc roofs of the city swung down toward the river, where soaring above the city stood the Eiffel Tower. In the other direction, the rooftops rose upward toward the crowning spires of the Sacre Coeur atop Montmartre.

“You can see why so many of the artists made this place their home, can’t you?” Adriana said, in a momentary distraction from the matter at hand.

“It’s a beautiful city,” Eden said, nodding. “And this is a unique way to see it.”

Adriana pushed the hatch shut and then shimmied to the edge of the rooftop. “Which apartment did he visit?” Adriana asked.

Eden crawled to the edge beside Adriana. Sixty feet below them, a truck chugged down the narrow Rue Emilia. Eden peered nervously down.

“That one.” She pointed at the building on the opposite side of the road. Two large windows opened into what looked like the apartment’s living area. “Apartment 222 on the second floor.”

Adriana dug a pair of binoculars from her bag. “Just looks like a normal studio flat to me. Whoever lives there has a lot of stuff.”

Eden agreed, noticing the flowers in the window. In contrast, the windows of the apartment above lay empty. Thick dust on the glass suggested the apartment above was unoccupied.

“What are you doing here, Moreau?” Eden asked no one in particular.

“Hold on, we’ve got someone at home,” Adriana said, passing Eden the binoculars.

Eden watched an older woman pace from one of the back rooms into the front of the apartment. She moved with the stately speed that many of the old women of Paris adopted, much to the frustration of the younger residents. The woman removed a coat from a stand and shuffled it on. Then, despite the warm weather outside, she draped a scarf around her neck and crossed to the door.

Eden passed the binoculars back to Adriana, then pulled out her phone and loaded the research document she’d made on Moreau. “Both Moreau’s parents died when he was young,” she said. “There’s no record of a family member fitting her description. Maybe a friend, but that seems—”

“She’s going out,” Adriana interrupted.

The woman in the apartment pulled open the door and disappeared through. Two minutes later, she appeared on the street below.

“Let’s move now,” Adriana said, stashing the binoculars and turning back toward the hatch.

9

Adriana and Eden dropped back through the hatch and ran down the stairs. For the second time, they were lucky and met no residents in the stairwell. Eden stepped out onto the street and looked toward the intersection at the end of the road. She could just make out the outline of the old woman, shuffling toward a scrum of cafés and shops at the end of the street. Eden didn’t think the woman would be out for long.

Adriana thumbed the bells beside the door one at a time. Eventually, one of the building’s residents answered and buzzed her in. Eden wondered what the point was of such security measures—like locked external doors—when they were so easy to have someone open for you.

Eden and Adriana charged up the stairs. In this building, the stairs zigzagged from the front to the back with a pair of elevators built into the wall. These elevators looked slightly more reliable than the birdcage across the street, Eden thought, but only just. She would still much rather take the stairs.

They reached the second floor and stopped at the door of the woman’s apartment. Eden peered through the window at the end of the hallway and out on to the street. There was no sign of the returning resident yet. She stepped toward the door. Constructed with dark, heavy wood, the door was much like the others in the buildings and looked impenetrable.

Adriana tried the door, locked solid. Getting inside without a key could be time-consuming and noisy.

“I’ve got this,” Eden said, examining the locks, a smile brightening her face. She dug a leather pouch from her bag and unfurled it on the floor beside her. Several thin metal tools glimmered from within the folds of the pouch.

“You can pick this?” Adriana asked, for the first time failing to hide the delight from her voice.

“Something my dad taught me,” Eden said, looking up at the other woman. Eden selected two of the tools and inserted them into the lock.

“Why would a professor of archaeology know about picking locks?” Adriana asked, her eyes betraying the fact she shouldn’t have asked the question.

Eden didn’t reply, focusing on the tension of the tumblers inside the lock.

“Okay, so maybe I did a bit of research about you, too.”

Eden moved the tools in tiny increments. Finally, the lock clicked. “That’s okay,” Eden said, climbing to her feet. “I’m sure you’ll agree that you can’t know everything about someone from a search on the internet.”

Eden pushed the handle, and the door swung open.

Adriana looked as though she was going to say something, then closed her mouth, nodded, and stepped inside.

As Eden and Adriana had observed from their viewpoint across the street, the apartment was a mess. What they hadn’t noticed was the size of the place. The room they were standing in served as both the living room and bedroom. Several pink-patterned blankets covered a bed against the rear wall. “Stuff” covered every other surface—books, ornaments, clothes. Bottles of lotion stood beside bottles of wine, all in various stages of consumption. Dusty photographs in gilded frames lay buried next to pieces of modern art, some sizable, others small. Various unmatching rugs covered the bare wooden floor. As though intending to make the clutter of the room seem even more overbearing, various shades of dark blue and green covered the walls.

Adriana strode over and peered into two small doors at the back of the apartment. “Bathroom and kitchen,” she said, stepping back into the front room. “Much the same as in here.”

Adriana turned to face Eden, who had said nothing since they’d stepped inside the apartment. Eden’s eyes were wide, almost bulging. She opened and closed her mouth, as though gulping for air. When the words failed her, she pointed at the wall.

There, hanging amid the clutter, overshadowed on a wall of avocado green, hung Picasso’s Dove with Green Peas.

10

Now it was Adriana’s turn not to say anything. She bolted across the room to get a better look at the painting. Angular shapes in yellow and brown jostled for space on the canvas. Shapes, whether arms or legs, waved or clawed at the other forms around them. The painting was beautiful in its abstraction. Perfection in its chaos.

“This is it,” Adriana said, inspecting the painting. “I can see the brushstrokes in the oil. It looks as though they run right to left, too, which makes sense being that Picasso was left-handed.”

“I think he was ambidextrous with a paintbrush,” Eden said, finally shaking herself back into the present. She stepped forward to examine the painting.

Adriana glanced at Eden and looked as though she was going to argue. She shrugged and continued examining the painting. “What do you think we should do now?” Adriana asked.

Eden stepped forward and leaned over a dark wooden dresser crammed full of dusty glass bottles and tubes of makeup. Eden stretched forward, her fingers still inches from the painting's lower corner.

“We have to take it and return it to the museum, of course,” Eden said.

“But what about the woman whose apartment this is?” Adriana replied. “Don’t you think we should find out why she has this painting to begin with? There might be something we don’t know.”

Eden glanced at the other woman. Adriana’s expression was impassive, as though she didn’t care either way.

“No,” Eden said. “It’s a stolen painting. We will return it so that the people of France can enjoy it.”

“But the lady could be charged with aiding a criminal. They could send her to prison for the rest of her life."

Eden felt anger bubble through her veins. Her body tensed. She didn’t understand why Adriana was making this so difficult. “It’s very straightforward,” Eden hissed. “We return the painting. Whether we tell the police where it came from or not, frankly, I don’t care. But this painting is going back now.”

Eden pulled herself up on the dresser. She knocked several glass bottles to the floor, smashing against the boards. She seized the bottom of the painting and then froze. The blood in her veins ran icy cold. Each muscle tensed like steel cables beneath her skin.

“Do not move. We are armed,” a man’s voice echoed through the room. “Let go of the painting, and get down from there.”

Eden glanced at Adriana beside her. With a flick of her head, Adriana indicated that Eden should do what she was told. She scrambled down, upsetting two more bottles, which crashed into a pile.

Eden dropped from the dresser and stood beside Adriana.

Two men stood in the doorway. Both held guns pointed squarely at Eden and Adriana. The men stepped forward into the room. Their presence made the apartment feel even smaller. Eden noticed their synchronized movements, hinting at military training. In this line of work, you came across two types of security people: The first was someone who didn’t make the grade in the police force, and as such, spent their days chasing shoplifters in the mall. The other was ex-military. They were highly trained, ruthless, and expensive. These guys were clearly the latter.

The man at the rear gently swung the door closed. Eden heard it click into place. They were discreet, too.

“The first rule of thievery,” the first man said. “Not all alarms make a noise.”

Eden cursed herself. They had assumed, judging by the disrepair of the apartment, that it wasn’t alarmed at all. They hadn’t expected to see the painting just hanging here.

“You’re going to have to come with us. Madame Dupont will decide what happens to you when she gets home.”

The man at the rear holstered his gun and unclipped two plastic hand ties from his belt.

“Turn around and put your hands together behind your back. If you try anything, I will shoot you.”

Eden turned slowly and glanced at Adriana. Adriana nodded almost imperceptibly. It was a gesture that said clearly, Whatever happens, we are not going with them.

Both women turned and placed their hands behind their backs.

Eden listened as the second guard padded across the floor toward them. He approached Eden first. Eden imagined him, his hands unstretched, ready to slot the hand ties over her wrists. He took another step closer.

“Now,” Adriana hissed.

Both women spun around in a heartbeat. Eden knocked the man’s hands to the side and then brought her knee up hard against his forearm. The guard yelped in pain and then spun around, clutching one arm with the other.

The first guard fired twice, sending hot metal thwacking into the wall. Plaster rained down on the women.

Eden sent two solid punches into the side of the security guard’s head. He staggered forward in a daze. Adriana leaped in and grabbed the man’s gun from its holster. She pushed the muzzle hard against the man’s head.

“You shoot again, and your friend here dies,” Adrianna spat.

“You wouldn’t dare. You’re a thief, not a killer.”

Adriana swung the weapon and squeezed the trigger. A bullet hammered through the guard’s shoe, obliterating his foot. He yowled in pain, his body shaking.

“Edge toward the door,” Adriana hissed at Eden. “Move to the side,” she commanded the other guard.

“You won’t get away with this,” the guard growled. His lips twisted into an unbridled sneer.

Neither woman responded as they shuffled toward the door, tugging the injured guard with them.

They pulled the guard onto the landing and then slammed the door. Adriana pushed the injured man to the floor. At least he wouldn’t be chasing them anytime soon.

“I’m taking this.” Adriana shook the gun.

Adriana and Eden ran down the stairs, jumping five steps at a time from one landing to the other. The guard swung open the door and fired down the stairwell several times. His gun howled, the bullets ricocheting wildly through the balustrades.

Reaching the first floor, Eden leaped across the rail and down into the lobby. She sprinted toward the door and leaped out into the street. Adriana appeared just moments later. With no intention of carrying an illegal firearm, Adriana turned the threw the gun back into the lobby.

The women walked quickly and in silence for two hundred feet, then ducked into a doorway to catch their breath. The muscles in Eden’s legs burned, and her senses pounded into overdrive. They had got out, but only just.

11

“It’s just been there, all those years. Less than a mile from the museum,” Eden said, sitting back in her chair. Eden and Adriana were back in their usual café, taking solace in the noise from the street and the unrecognisable chatter of passing pedestrians.

“Hiding in plain sight,” Adriana said carelessly. “That’s often the best way.”

Eden scrutinized the other woman’s movements. No one said anything while the waiter delivered their drinks.

“You know, before coming here I had heard that French waiters were the rudest in the world, but I didn’t believe it. I thought it was just one of those unfair generalizations.”

“Like British people having wonky teeth,” Adriana said, grinning.

“Exactly,” Eden said, smiling and showing off her teeth, which were both straight and white. “But this guy”—Eden pointed at the waiter as he retreated inside the café—“is probably the least pleasant waiter I’ve ever met.”

“At least we’re not here for the conversation.” Adriana took a sip of her coffee. “He makes great coffee, though.”

A classic Citroën chugged past the café, filling the street with its fumes. When the noise of the car had faded back into the bustle of the city, Eden turned the conversation back to their discovery of the painting.

“What do you think we should do?”

Adriana took a sip of the coffee. “The police are out of the question. Inspector Favreau will be on the case again. He was so sore that they never got the painting back. During Moreau’s trial, he went on the news and promised the people of France that he would get the painting back.”

“Never promise something you can’t keep,” Eden said.

“Exactly. The guy’s like that, though. Everything’s personal to him. He’d find a way to lock that lady up and may even fabricate something else to charge Moreau with. Plus, there’s no guarantee they’ll return the painting to the gallery.”

“You seem to know a lot about this guy,” Eden said, watching Adriana closely.

“I have an interest in law enforcement,” Adriana said with a laugh.

“If we’re not going to tell the police, we’re going to have to get it back ourselves.”

Adriana nodded. “But that’s not going to be easy. I looked into the alarm system, as you suggested.” Adriana pulled out her iPad and read from the screen. “Motion sensors, toughened glass, automatic locking on the doors and windows, the silent alarm diverts to a security company three minutes away.”

“Three minutes to get in and out. That shouldn’t be too difficult.”

“Pressure sensors on the door, too. From the moment you touch the door, the timer begins.”

“Ahh.” Eden was pretty good with her lock picks, but that was a challenge. “What about when the woman’s asleep?”

“Between ten p.m. and six a.m., the system's in sleep mode. The motion sensors are disabled, but the sensors on the doors and windows remain armed. We try to break in, and the men are called.”

“What about if someone held the woman at gunpoint and took the painting?” Eden read Adriana’s shocked expression and added, “I’m not suggesting we do that. I’m just interested.”

“Madame Dupont—remember we know her name now—has a panic button on a fob she wears around her neck. You’d have to get in without her pressing it.”

“What about hacking in and disabling the alarm?”

“Air-gapped military-grade encryption. It’ll take an expert and time, and you’d need access to the alarm’s hardware to do it.”

“How is it set?”

Adriana scrolled farther down the page. “It’s got a dual system. Madame Dupont wears a fob on a chain around her neck, so it can only be deactivated when she’s in the building. That same fob contains the panic button. Then there’s an eight-digit code which she enters on a keypad by the door. That’s changed every week.”

Eden thought through the problem. “Let me get that straight. Even if we crack the code, she has to be inside the building for the alarm to disable.”

“Correct.”

“Can’t we just steal the fob? You got that pen from that guy without him noticing.”

Adriana scowled. “This is a fob she wears under her clothes. It’s much more difficult than slipping a pen from someone’s pocket.”

The women sat in silence for a minute, both concentrating on their drinks.

Eden nodded. “Do you think it’s possible?”

“Of course, it’s possible. It’s just very difficult,” Adriana said. “But luckily, I’ve spent my life breaking into difficult.”

“The fob. The key to this is in the fob. How does that work?” Eden interrupted, her mind spinning at a hundred miles an hour.

Adriana scrolled back through the technical specifications of the alarm system. “There’s a receiver in the alarm’s control unit. The fob broadcasts a signal with a range of about fifty feet. Only when the control unit picks up this signal will it allow the password to be entered.”

“Okay,” Eden said, thinking out loud. “The problem with an alarm system is that it’s designed by a human mind. That means that it has human assumptions built in. What assumptions is this alarm making?”

“We can’t move through the walls?” Adriana said sarcastically. “We can’t turn ourselves invisible?”

“Exactly!” Eden said, banging the table.

Adriana looked confused. “But we can’t move through walls, and we’re not invisible.”

“But what if we could? Humor me for a moment.”

Adriana rolled her eyes.

“Go on,” Eden said, pointing at the other woman.

“We would walk in behind the lady, wait for her to deactivate the alarm, take the painting off the wall, and then run away,” Adriana said, slowly.

“Exactly,” Eden said, the blunt end of an idea forming in Eden’s mind. “This alarm system is working on the assumption that we take the painting when the alarm is set.”

Adriana frowned and shook her head.

Eden’s expression was the opposite. She nodded, a grin forming. “I think”—she said, finishing her drink—“I might have an idea.”

12

Paris Police Headquarters.

Sebastián Stellar pushed through the doors of the conference room, holding a piece of paper to his chest as though it offered some protection. The first few days of the investigation into the missing Picasso had dragged. Favreau had tasked Sebastián and LaRue with listening through the several thousand calls that had come in about the painting over the last several years. Although many of the calls had already been screened, Favreau ordered a reassessment of old evidence just in case anything had been missed.

Favreau paced around the conference room like a caged animal. In one hand, he held a cheeseburger, and in the other he held a piece of paper from which he read. The smell in the room, like the mood, had taken a turn for the sour, too, Sebastián decided.

“What have you got, Junior?” Favreau said, turning to face the younger man. He took a large bite from the burger, cheese and juice running down his chin.

Sebastián stepped forward. “It’s Sebastián, sir,”

“What?” Favreau snapped, meat spraying from his mouth in a cloud of spittle.

“My name is Sebastián, not Junior.”

Favreau barked a single, dry, humorless laugh. “Until you’re a fully fledged detective, in my department, you’ll be called Junior. Do you understand that, Junior? Now, did you come in here to tell me about your identity issues, or are you actually earning your pay today?”

Sebastián swallowed. The smell of the other man combined with the room made him feel sick.

“Yes, of course. It’s probably nothing. But a report came in today of shots fired at an apartment occupied by one of Moreau’s known associates. A woman known as—”

“Give me that.” Favreau swiped the paper from Sebastián’s grasp with a greasy paw. He skimmed through it, eyes bulging. “You mean to tell me that you think the painting is in the care of an eighty-five-year-old woman?”

Sebastián shrugged. “I’m just—”

“I can tell you it’s not. What we’re dealing with here is a criminal mastermind, not a charity case for senior citizens. Get back on the phone, and don’t come back until you find me something useful.”

13

“This plan is so crazy, it might actually work,” Adriana said as they walked around the once-empty apartment. Over the last two days, the two women had worked tirelessly, turning the apartment into a mirror of Madame Dupont’s below. They had painted the walls similar colors of blue and green, stained the floor, found similar furniture from various secondhand shops around the city, and even got a life-size poster of the Picasso mounted in a similar frame.

“It’s not going to stand up to scrutiny,” Eden said, attaching the alarm keypad to the wall on the left, “but it only needs to fool her for long enough to enter the pin number. Does that work?” Eden entered a random number into the keypad, and the numbers appeared on Adriana’s iPad.

“Yep, perfectly,” Adriana said.

“And you’ve got the lift sorted?” Eden asked, standing back, and surveying the room.

“Yes, we have a tiny camera in there. When we see her returning, we can override the system and bring her to this floor instead of her own. There’s also a camera in the hallway and one in here, just so that we can keep an eye on everything.”

“How long has she been out?” Eden asked, a nervous excitement bubbling in her stomach. She tried to stand still but found herself wanting constantly to move. She crossed back over to the bed and scrunched up the sheets.

“Funny you should ask,” Adriana commented, looking up from her iPad. “Madame Dupont has just walked into the foyer. Are you ready?”

Eden turned and looked at Adriana, her heart in her throat. “Ready as I’ll ever be. Let’s do this.”

The two women tiptoed out of the apartment and closed the door. The dud lock that Eden had installed clicked closed—the thing could be opened with any key. Even a blunt screwdriver would do the job.

Eden’s bubbling anxiety turned into a churning nausea.

Adriana led them down the single flight of stairs to the floor below. Eden sank into a crouch in front of the door of Madame Dupont’s actual apartment. She pulled out her lockpicks and laid them on the floor beside her as she had last time. The decrepit lift whirred and hummed, pulling Madame Dupont toward the decoy apartment. Eden set to work. With Madame Dupont in the lift and as such within fifty feet, the pressure sensors on the door should have been deactivated.

The elevator mechanism grunted and groaned. Something metallic clanged as it rose past the first floor.

Eden’s hands shook as she tried to disengage the lock. Picking it last time had been fine. Now, with the added pressure, she was concentrating twice as hard.

The elevator reached the second floor. If the doors opened now, Madame Dupont would walk straight into Eden and Adriana breaking into her apartment. Another clang vibrated through the old mechanism. The engine creaked but didn’t stop. The elevator continued upward.

“It worked,” Adriana whispered, looking at her iPad.

Eden exhaled, realizing she’d been holding her breath. She inhaled twice, attempting to calm herself, and continued picking the lock.

The elevator noise faded, followed by the sound of the doors creaking open. Madame Dupont’s shoes clicked across the marble and toward the decoy apartment.

Eden turned her focus back to the lock. Her hands were sweating now, making it even more difficult to use the delicate tools.

Adriana glanced at her iPad. They now had just a few seconds to get through the door.

Finally, not a moment too soon, the tumblers fell, and the lock clicked. The door swung silently open. At almost the same time, the sound of the door opening above drifted down the hallway.

Eden rolled up her tools and stashed them quickly in her bag. She climbed to her feet and paced to the alarm control on the wall.

The numbers appeared on Adriana’s screen. Adriana read them out, and Eden entered them into the alarm. A single beep echoed through the apartment.

Eden’s heart continued to thunder in her chest. They were inside; now they just had to get out.

Eden and Adriana ran across the room. Adriana grabbed a chair and placed it in front of the dresser. The broken glass from their last attempt to steal the painting had been cleared up, but countless bottles remained on top of the dresser. Eden climbed on to the chair. Adriana supported her.

Eden reached over the dresser and placed her hands on the priceless work of art. A further jolt of excitement moved through her. Her fingers curled around the frame. She slowly, reverently removed the painting from the wall. It was heavier than she’d expected. She leaned on the back of the chair to prevent herself from falling. Eden climbed down from the chair and looked at the painting in her hands. The painting that had evaded the French police for almost a decade.

Eden locked eyes with Adriana. Adriana nodded and smiled.

Then something happened.

Bright lights flooded the apartment, and the sound of riotous applause filled the room.

14

The applause echoed loud in the tiny room. Eden stepped back against the dresser, bottles clanging, holding the painting to her chest. Not understanding what was going on, her wide eyes searched the room. Her heart beat like a jackhammer, and her muscles tensed like razor wire, ready to run or fight.

Eden looked toward the doorway. Out on the landing, dark shapes moved.

Eden glanced at Adriana, expecting her to be ready for conflict, but Adriana stood quite at ease. She was applauding, too.

Several figures stepped toward the doorway and then appeared in the now brightly lit apartment. Madame Dupont was the first to enter. She wasn’t frowning, angry, or even confused. She was smiling, her hands clapping in appreciation. Next to enter were the two security guards Eden and Adriana had met on their last visit. Gone were the guards’ expressions of menace. They smiled, too. Finally, followed a man. He was of slighter build and at least ten years older than the security guards. Eden recognized his dark eyes and graying hair immediately. It was Moreau.

“What’s… What’s going on?” Eden stuttered, glancing from Adriana to the other assembled people.

“I fear you’ve got some explaining to do, young woman,” said Madame Dupont in heavily accented English.

“You guys all know each other?” The realization dawned slowly in Eden’s mind.

“I’m sorry to say I haven’t been totally truthful with you,” Adriana said, turning to face Eden. “On the day we met, I was actually collecting Moreau from prison. When I saw you following, I thought maybe you were working with the police, so I doubled back on the bike to investigate. Then, when you appeared to be on your own, I figured you were looking for the Picasso.”

“Over the years, there have been many,” Madame Dupont said, slightly wistfully. “But you are the only one to find it.”

“It’s only when we spoke, and I realized how much potential you had, that I decided to set up a little challenge. I asked my friends here to help.”

The two security guards stepped forward and introduced themselves to Eden.

“Wait, your foot is fine?” Eden said, pointing at the smaller man’s uninjured foot.

“A little special effect.” The man shrugged. “Those guns shoot nothing but air.”

“You set me up,” Eden whispered, aware of how stupid and obvious the statement sounded.

“I’m afraid we did,” Adriana agreed. “The more we spoke, the more I thought you had potential, but I needed to test you to see.”

“That play with the double apartment was a stroke of genius,” Moreau said.

“You didn’t fool me,” Madame Dupont interjected.

“Absurdité, Tata!” Moreau laughed. “You didn’t know a thing was going on. You would have sat there for an hour before realizing.”

The security guards laughed now, too. Dupont scowled.

“Hold on a sec,” Eden said, her voice cutting harshly through the good cheer. “Where’s the real painting?”

Everyone exchanged glances and then looked at Adriana.

“You’re holding it,” Adriana said.

Eden blinked hard, trying to let that soak in, too. “Why would you steal a priceless work of art and keep it?”

Madame Dupont stepped forward. “You know, young lady, there are many reasons to steal. Only one of them is the money.” Dupont took the painting from Eden’s grasp and held it up easily. “My Francis stole this picture for me for a very different reason.” Dupont looked warmly at Moreau.

Another voice echoed through the apartment. A jolt moved through everyone in the room.

“This is Sebastián Stellar with the police. Do not move. I am armed.”

15

“See you tomorrow,” Sebastián said, powering off his computer and pushing his chair beneath the desk. LaRue grunted from the desk opposite, his colorless chin resting on a colorless hand.

Sebastián clattered through the door of the ugly ’60s building that housed police headquarters and into the streets of Paris’s Tenth Arrondissement. Sebastián crossed the street, then turned back and looked at the building. This really wasn’t what he expected when he’d transferred to the capital. Sebastián had thought that fighting crime on the streets of Paris would be a bit more, well, interesting.

Sebastián sighed, his shoulders drooping to the sides. He turned and wandered in the direction of his apartment. Fifteen minutes later, thoughts churning through his mind, Sebastián looked up and realized he didn’t know where he was. He usually rode the metro to and from work. Today with his mind foggy, he’d wandered randomly into Paris’s labyrinthine streets.

He walked toward an intersection and searched the buildings for street names. He would find his way back to the metro and get himself home. Sure, he could use the map on his phone, but he was trying to learn the city.

“Rue Emilie," he said to himself, noticing the name of the street on a board above a hair salon. The street names sounded strangely familiar. Sebastián said it to himself again several times before realization struck.

Sebastián fished through his satchel for the report he’d shown inspector Favreau earlier in the day. He found the single sheet of paper scrunched up at the bottom of the bag. He flattened it out as best he could and tried to ignore the grease stains.

Sebastián read through the report, his fingers following the words. “Shots reported in apartment 222, Rue Emilie.” He glanced at the numbers of the nearby buildings. Apartment 222 was just a few minutes’ walk along the road.

He straightened his tie and strode off, counting the numbers as he went. Sure, the inspector had said the lead was nothing, and if it was nothing, he would never have to know that Sebastián had checked it out.

If, by some chance, it resulted in more, then Sebastián would be a hero. He would be the detective who found the painting.

“No more Junior,” Sebastián muttered to himself.

He reached 222, stopped on the pavement and gazed upward. The building was like many others on the street. Large windows took in the late afternoon sun. Sebastián crossed to the door. He was about to check the apartment number and call up when he noticed the door was open.

His brow knitted into a comma of concern. Now he certainly had to investigate. He pushed open the door and padded up the wide staircase. Reaching the first landing, he heard voices echoing from the apartment on the second floor.

“Why would you steal a priceless work of art and keep it?” came a woman’s voice.

Questions raced through Sebastián’s mind. What priceless piece of art?

His heart beat more quickly now. He instinctively started walking on his toes to prevent the patter of shoes on the marble.

“My Francis stole this picture for me for a very different reason.” An older woman’s voice drifted out of the apartment now.

Sebastián reached the top of the stairs and crossed the landing as quietly as he was able. He peered slowly inside the apartment. What he saw riveted him to the spot.

“Backup,” he whispered to himself. “Must call backup.”

16

An icy shudder moved through Madame Dupont’s apartment. Slowly, each of the occupants moved to face the door. A single police officer stood on the landing. He wore the plain clothes of a detective with the Paris police; a golden identity badge sparkled on his belt. He levelled his gun at Madame Dupont and the painting.

“Backup will be here at any moment. I do not want to shoot anyone. Do not move. I am going to take you safely into custody now.” The young detective swung his gun around the group. It looked as though he was unsure of what do to next. There were five people and one of him.

In one explosive moment, one of the security guards leaped toward the door. The heavy door swung quickly shut, clicking into place. Madame Dupont slapped the button on the fob. A lock crunched in the door.

“Open this door now!” came a distant voice from the other side. “I’ll be forced to break it down if you don’t!”

“I’d like to see you try. That door is solid steel.” Dupont scoffed.

The shriek of several police sirens echoed up from the street. Eden rushed across to the window. Three police cars slid to a stop outside the apartment building. Officers piled out of the cars and swarmed toward the building. A bullish man, already red in the face, screamed instructions to the other officers.

“Inspector Favreau is here,” Adriana said, standing behind Eden.

“That man is an imbecile,” Dupont spat, looking like she was chewing on a wasp.

“That door may hold for a while, but it won’t forever,” Adriana said, the color draining from her face.

“I think I can help with that,” Eden said, smiling and removing a set of keys from her pocket. “This way.” She ushered the group into Madame Dupont’s tiny kitchen. She threw open the window. Warm afternoon air gushed in.

“We can’t get out of there. We’re forty feet above the ground,” Adriana said.

Eden held up a small remote attached to the set of keys and pressed a button. The distant chugging of a motor streamed in, followed by a strange hissing noise.

“It’s suicide. We might as well give up now!” Dupont said, throwing her hands in the air.

A hydraulically powered platform appeared at the window.

Eden thumbed the button again. The platform hissed to a stop at the level of the window. She climbed out through the window and beckoned the others across. Adriana shook her head, and Moreau grinned.

When they were all aboard, including the painting, Eden lowered them into the yard behind the building.

“Get in the van,” she said, pointing at a discolored van parked in the corner of the yard. The writing on the side suggested she’d borrowed it from a laundry. “You drive.” She threw the keys to one of the security guards.

Eden and Adriana ran toward the gate. They slid open the heavy steel gate, which exited fifty feet away from the building’s entrance. Several police officers stood around the entrance, looking up at the apartment.

Eden beckoned to the security guard now behind the wheel. The van’s engine coughed once and then roared to life. The van pulled toward the street, pausing to let Eden and Adriana jumped in the back.

“I still can’t believe you set me up like that,” Eden said to Adriana as they stood, swaying inside the truck.

“I can’t believe you set up an escape plan without telling me,” Adriana countered.

“I was just taking the advice you gave me on the first day we met,” Eden said.

“Don’t trust anyone,” both women said in unison.

“Especially me,” Adriana added, smiling.

Twenty minutes later, the truck rumbled on to the D906, heading south. Eden thought that maybe they would end up in Lyon, or maybe Nice. She wouldn’t mind either. Peering through one of the truck’s filthy back windows, Eden examined the city spread out behind them in the late afternoon sun. In the center of the sea of glimmering roofs, the Eiffel Tower stretched upward.

Eden glanced at Adriana. Maybe it was time to start trusting someone. Maybe it was time they both started trusting someone.

Eden stepped toward Madame Dupont, lying regally on a pile of freshly laundered sheets. “You still didn’t tell me why Moreau stole this painting for you.” Eden pointed at the Picasso now wrapped in a bedsheet.

“Well, it’s a very long story, but as we’ve got quite a journey ahead of us, I’ll tell you. Are you comfortable?”

Eden sat on the bed sheets beside Madame Dupont. The truck rumbled on.

“It all happened in 1930 when my mother was visiting a gallery in New York,” Dupont said. “She was a looker, my mother. A real firecracker. Anyway, she met this rather striking man who was over there exhibiting his work. He went by the name of Picasso…”

EDEN BLACK RETURNS IN THE ARK FILES

Read THE ARK FILES here

Imagine a secret manuscript that could change the world, and you’re the only person who knows where it is.

Professional treasure hunter EDEN BLACK is no stranger to action. After all, the artifacts she spends her life returning to their rightful owners aren’t always easy to access.

When Eden’s father dies in a plane crash, her life’s turned upside down. Grief turns to fear when she learns that it wasn't an accident. Everyone involved in an archaeological dig twenty years ago has met with a similar untimely end. Everyone that is, but Eden who was ten at the time.

When her father’s house is raided and burned to the ground, Eden’s forced into action. To learn the truth about her father’s death and save herself from sharing his fate, Eden must uncover the manuscript and expose its secrets once and for all.

But this time the world is watching, and not everyone is on her side.

Read THE ARK FILES here

ADRIANA VILLA IN THE WAR OF THIEVES

Read THE WAR OF THIEVES here

Could you steal a priceless work of art to save your father's life?

Adriana Villa is a master thief who specializes in recovering stolen art from World War II. When her father is abducted, Adriana is thrown into a deadly race against time to locate and steal three of the most valuable paintings of all time. If she succeeds, her father’s life will be spared. But if she fails....

Follow Adriana on her impossible mission as she unravels the clues, chases down leads, and fights off a slew of henchmen in this white-knuckle thrill ride! But another thief lurks in the shadows and Adriana must stay one step ahead of this reckless villain who has her own reasons for finding the paintings…millions of reasons.

The War of Thieves box set features all three books in the trilogy: The Mexican Connection, War of Thieves, and The Syndicate.

Read THE WAR OF THIEVES here

LUKE RICHARDSON

First of all, thanks so much for taking an interest in my writing. My books are the culmination of years of travelling, dreaming and writing. I’m so excited to share them with you.

My journey towards writing, like most, wasn’t straightforward. I’ve always loved stories, but it wasn’t until my thirties that I actually put pen to paper. I think I needed to see and experience the world a bit before writing about it.

I grew up in the South of England, near Hastings, and moved to Nottingham for university. After that I worked as a nightclub DJ for a few years - I still do from time to time.

In 2013 I trained to be an English teacher. Helping young people realize and enjoy their creativity was wonderful. But, as many teachers will testify, it’s not a job that sits well with other hobbies and interests. So, in 2020 I made the decision to leave the classroom and focus on my writing, travel, and spend time with friends and family.

My stories are part adventure, part mystery, and always rely heavily on the places I go and the people I meet.

Where do you want to go now?

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OTHER BOOKS BY LUKE RICHARDSON

Koh Tao

Leo’s looking for the perfect place to propose to the love of his life. When they arrive in the Thai tropical paradise of Koh Tao, he thinks he’s found it. But before he gets an answer, she’s nowhere to be seen.

Read for free:

www.lukerichardsonauthor.com/kohtao

Kathmandu

You visit a restaurant in a far-away city, only to find you’re on the menu.

Leo Keane is sent abroad to track down Allissa, a politician’s daughter who vanished two years ago in Kathmandu. But with a storm on the horizon and intrigue at every turn, Leo’s mission may be more dangerous than he bargained for… A propulsive international thriller!

www.lukerichardsonauthor.com/kathmandu

Hong Kong

Could you frame a man with murder to land your dream job?

When Jamie’s colleague and former lover disappears, the police ask questions. Sure, a body’s not been found, but there’s plenty of evidence to land Jamie behind bars.

Leo and Allissa take the case. In order to free a man charged with murder, they must find a woman who’s supposed to be dead.

www.lukerichardsonauthor.com/hongkong

Berlin

When a prominent fashion designer falls beneath a train on Berlin’s U-Bahn, everything points to suicide. But his family isn’t convinced.

Keen to prove he’s over his past and has a handle on his anxiety, Leo heads to Berlin alone. When the investigation leads from a late-night techno club to a shop run by gangsters and finally onto the sinister wreck of a Cold War spy station, it may be a decision he stands to regret.

www.lukerichardsonauthor.com/berlin

New York

Heading to New York for a much-needed holiday, Andy and Emma hope some quality time will put their relationship back on track. When Andy disappears, it’s clear the city that never sleeps has other plans.

Teaming up with New York P.I. Niki Zadid, Leo and Allissa search the city. But this isn’t just another case, Emma's Leo's sister, he knew they were having problems, and should’ve done more to help.

www.lukerichardsonauthor.com/newyork

Riga

Andreja Panasenko thought she knew her mother. But then, death changes everything.

To avoid losing her inheritance, Andreja must reconnect with her estranged sister. One problem, her sister went missing as a child, nearly fifty years ago. Leo & Allissa travel to Riga to help, but they’re barely off the plane before Andrea’s nowhere to be seen. To find her, they must follow clues dating back to a time when powerful men ruled supreme.

www.lukerichardsonauthor.com/riga

Istanbul

Governments in chaos. Violence in the streets. A new world order is coming.

When an exiled American conspiracy theorist disappears in Istanbul, no one’s surprised. Afterall, if you’re a thorn in the side of the establishment, it’s a matter of when, not if.

Leo and Allissa head to Istanbul in an attempt to prevent all out anarchy. But, when sinister forces intervene, it’s clear the ancient city won’t easily part with her secrets.

www.lukerichardsonauthor.com/istanbul

The Liberator: Kayla Stone Vigilante Thrillers with Steven Moore

Justice is her beat

Her name is Kayla Stone

She is ‘The Liberator’

The Liberator Series is a ferocious new collaboration between Luke Richardson and Steven Moore.

If you like Clive Cussler, Nick Thacker, Ernest Dempsey and Russell Blake, then you’ll love this explosive new series!

www.lukerichardsonauthor.com/theliberator

ERNEST DEMPSEY

Check out my page on Amazon here

Hey, neighbor. My name is Ernest Dempsey, and I would love to be your guide on a journey of exploration, discovery, and the experience of a lifetime through the eyes of my characters.

I love history. Always have, as long as I can remember. And I also love literature. Same story with that. Most of all, I love archaeological thrillers like the ones I grew up watching in the 1980s: the Goonies, Indiana Jones, stuff with a mystery and a good treasure hunt. Now I live in the most amazing dream where I get to write those kinds of archaeological thrillers for a living.

I've also always had a fondness for Fantasy and Science Fiction. So, if you snoop around my catalog you may find a few of those stories too.

I attended Southern Adventist University from 1995-2003, earning a bachelors degree in psychology and a masters in school counseling. In my heart, however, I've always been a storyteller, an entertainer. So, after twelve years of working in the school system, I quit my job to write full time.

I've learned over the years, both in writing stories and in my experience, that life is unpredictable.

Cliché, I know.

But people crave a little predictability now and then, when the good guys win and the bad guys get their comeuppance. The most important thing, both in books and in life, is that the end can be easy to predict so long as the journey isn't. You may know how a story will end, or at least have an inkling, but if you don't know how it gets there, then that unpredictability makes it fun.

That's how I approach storytelling.

So, if you like twists in stories, you'll find them here. All along the journey. And maybe occasionally at the end. But one thing is certain; you will never be bored.

Come on this journey with me. I promise I will always work hard to honor your valuable time with exciting action, baffling mysteries, and intriguing history.

Join the adventure, and get four free stories on my website at www.ernestdempsey.net.

See y'all in there,

Ernest Dempsey

Your Friendly Neighborhood Author

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Copyright © 2022 by Luke Richardson and Ernest Dempsey

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

All people, places, and events are fictional or used in a fictional context. Any resemblance to real events, people, or locations is purely coincidence.

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