The loudspeaker overhead burst into a babble of Italian, in which I caught the word ‘Monaco.’ That’s Italian for Munich.
‘My flight,’ I said. ‘Goodbye.’
‘Time for one last passionate embrace,’ said John, and put his arm around me.
I braced myself; even with one arm he could literally sweep a lady off her feet, as I had good reason to know. But instead of pulling me close to him he just stood there looking into my eyes. His face was unmasked and vulnerable – and dangerously appealing. It was an unbelievably effective performance; my insides started to go soft, like melting jelly. I had to remind myself that with John it was hard to tell what was real from . . . a forgery.
He brushed my lips gently with his, and stood back.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ he said again, and walked away.
‘One red rose?’ I called. He turned.
‘Nothing so jejune. I won’t tell you what the message will be. You’ll know.’
That was six months ago; but he was right. When the message came, I knew who it was from.
It arrived yesterday. There was no note, nothing in writing. Only a little box containing Marie Antoinette’s engagement ring. Six rose-cut diamonds encircling a ten-carat sapphire.
It’s in the Louvre. I think.
I have some leave time coming. Schmidt agreed I didn’t have to count the Rome trip. Getting kidnapped, hit on the jaw, and threatened by a mixed-up kid with a gun is not anybody’s idea of a vacation – not even Schmidt’s. I’ve always wanted to go to Paris. They say if you stand on the Champs Elysees, sooner or later you will meet everyone you’ve ever known.
