“Which version of you?”
“Both,” he answered.
Chiara was silent for a moment. Then she asked, “Does she know you love me, Gabriel?”
“She knows.”
A pause. “
“What?”
“Love me.”
She turned her back to him. “I’m sorry,” she said after a moment.
“For what?”
“The baby. If I hadn’t lost the baby, you wouldn’t be going to Paris without me.”
Gabriel made no reply. Chiara climbed slowly atop his body.
“Do you love me?” she asked again.
“More than anything.”
“Show me.”
“How?”
She kissed his lips and whispered, “Show me, Gabriel.”
21
RUE DE MIROMESNIL, PARIS
ANTIQUITÉS SCIENTIFIQUES OCCUPIED A LONELY outpost at the end of rue de Miromesnil where tourists rarely ventured. There were some in the Parisian antiques trade who had urged its owner, the fastidious Maurice Durand, to relocate to the rue de Rivoli or perhaps even the Champs-Élysées. But Monsieur Durand had always resisted for fear he would spend his days watching overweight Americans pawing his precious antique microscopes, cameras, spectacles, barometers, and surveyors, only to depart the shop empty-handed. Besides, Durand had always preferred his tidy little life at the quiet end of the arrondissement. There was a good brasserie across the street where he took his coffee in the morning and drank his wine at night. And then there was Angélique Brossard, a seller of glass figurines who was always willing to change the sign in her window from OUVERT to FERMÉ whenever Durand came calling.
But there was another reason why Maurice Durand had resisted the lure of Paris’s busier streets. Antiquités Scientifiques, while reasonably profitable, operated largely as a front for his primary occupation. Durand specialized in conveying paintings and other objets d’art from homes, galleries, and museums into the hands of collectors who did not care about meddlesome details such as a clean provenance. There were some in law enforcement who might have described Durand as an art thief, though he would have quibbled with that characterization, for it had been many years since he had actually stolen a painting himself. He now operated solely as a broker in the process known as commissioned theft—or, as Durand liked to describe it, he managed the acquisition of paintings that were not technically for sale. His clients tended to be the sort of men who did not like to be disappointed, and Durand rarely failed them. Working with a stable of Marseille-based professional thieves, he had been the linchpin in some of history’s greatest art heists. Topping his list of achievements, at least in monetary terms, was Van Gogh’s
But it was Maurice Durand’s link to a lesser-known work—
All of which goes some way to explaining why, twenty-four hours after arriving in Paris, Eli Lavon presented himself at the entrance of the little shop at 106 rue de Miromesnil. The buzzer, when pressed, emitted an inhospitable howl. Then the deadbolts snapped open with a thud, and Lavon, shaking the rain from his sodden overcoat, slipped inside.
“Stolen anything lately, Monsieur Durand?”
“Not even a kiss, Monsieur Lavon.”
The two men appraised each other for a moment without speaking. They were roughly equals in height and build, but the similarities ended there. While Lavon wore an outfit he called Left Bank revolutionary chic, Durand was impeccably attired in a somber chalk-stripe suit and lavender necktie. His bald head shone like polished glass in the restrained overhead lighting. His dark eyes were expressionless and unblinking.
“How can I assist you?” he asked, as though helping Lavon was the last thing in the world he wished to do.
“I’m looking for something special,” Lavon replied.
“Well, then, you’ve certainly come to the right place.” Durand walked over to a display case filled with microscopes. “This just arrived,” he said, running his hand over one of the instruments. “It was made by Nachet & Sons of Paris in 1890. The optics and mechanics are all in good condition. So is the walnut case.”
“Not that kind of something, Monsieur Durand.”
Durand’s hand had yet to move from the oxidized surface of the microscope. “It seems my debt has come due,” he said.
“You make us sound like blackmailers,” Lavon said, hoisting his most benevolent smile. “But I assure you that’s not the case.”
“What do you want?”
“Your expertise.”
“It’s expensive.”
“Don’t worry, Maurice. Money isn’t the problem.”
The rain chased them across the Place de la Concorde and along the Seine embankments. It was not the pleasing Parisian rain of songwriters and poets but a frigid torrent that clawed its way through their overcoats. Durand, thoroughly miserable, pleaded for the warmth of a taxi, but Lavon wanted to make certain they were not being followed, and so they slogged on. Finally, they entered the foyer of a luxury apartment building overlooking the Pont Marie and climbed the spiral staircase to a flat on the fourth floor. Seated in the living room, looking comfortable and relaxed, was Gabriel. With only a slight movement of his emerald-colored eyes, he invited Durand to join him. The Frenchman hesitated. Then, after receiving a nudge from Lavon, he approached with the slowness of a condemned man being led to the gallows.
“You obviously recognize me,” Gabriel said, watching Durand intently as he settled into his seat. “That’s usually a liability in our business. But not in this case.”
“How so?”
“Because you know I’m a professional, just like you. You also know I’m not someone who would waste valuable time by making idle threats.”
Gabriel looked down at the coffee table. On it were two matching attaché cases.
“Time bombs?” asked Durand.
“Your future.” Gabriel placed his hand on one of the attaché cases. “This one contains enough evidence to put a man in prison for the rest of his life.”
“And the other?”
“One million euros in cash.”
“What do I have to do for it?”
Gabriel smiled. “What you do best.”
