Paris Love Match

Chapter 21





Piers could see the square in front of Gare de l’Est. The police were clearing up the yellow tape and paraphernalia of a crime scene, and a TV van was parked in one corner.

“Not that way,” he said.

“Really?” she said. “Your brilliance amazes me.”

He pulled out the tourist map and folded it to get Gare de l’Est and Notre Dame visible at the same time.

Sidney looked over his shoulder. “Where did he come from before he jumped in our taxi?”

“I don’t know. I was too busy having an argument with this other person who jumped in my”— he looked at her sideways—“our taxi.”

She punched him in the ribs. “I saw it before you. It was my taxi.”

“Oh, right, the old Paris taxi etiquette. I forgot. Either way, I think he must have approached the taxi from behind, otherwise we’d have seen him running toward us.”

She pointed to the map. “If he was driving, the best route would be along Strasbourg, Pont Au Change, Saint Michael, then a right turn over to Montparnasse station. Easy, if the traffic’s not bad, which it always is, so he’d probably use the side roads.”

He looked along the route. “That’s a lot of roads.”

“What color was the car?” Sidney said.

Piers flipped through the sales receipt. “Blue.”

She grabbed the paper. “Is that all it says: blue?”

She studied it for a moment and shoved it back into Piers’ hands. “Must have been written by a man.”

Within a minute, Piers spotted a blue Renault 5. He ran to it. It looked old, but in good condition. There was no stripe, but it could have worn off. He cupped his hands around his face to look in through the windows. Empty fast food wrappers were everywhere and the ashtray was full.

“Can I help you?” said a voice behind him.

Piers spun around. “I’m, er, we’re looking for a friend’s Renault 5.”

A well-dressed man sneered at Piers. “Really. Well, this isn’t it. Get lost.”

“We are looking—” Piers said.

Sidney dragged him away by the elbow. “Don’t make a scene.”

Piers freed himself from Sidney’s grip. “Don’t make a scene? You’re a good one to say that.”

The man got into the Renault and pulled out to a chorus of car horns. Piers watched the car disappear in the traffic.

Sidney shook him back to the real world. “We need to find the painting. We have to focus now.”

“Wow. Suddenly, you’re all business.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? I thought you were the one who wanted to take this more seriously.”

“I do.”

“Then get walking and start looking.”

Piers took a deep breath and let his nerves calm. She was right. One minute he was the one focused on the painting, the next it was her.

For the next two hours, they walked along the alleys and side streets checking an endless string of Renaults until Sidney called a stop and leaned against a railing. She pried off one shoe and massaged her foot. “This is stupid. Like trying to find a needle in a haystack.”

Piers stretched the backs of his legs. “Next time, let’s kick Little and Large out, and we’ll keep the car.”

“You’ve waited all this time to think of that?”

Her phone buzzed. She read a message, pressed a couple of buttons, and stuffed it back in her pocket. “Friend. Doesn’t matter. Come on.”

“Where?”

“To walk this bloody route.”

Piers sighed and followed along after her. He rearranged the folds in the map to keep up with their location. After an hour, the Seine came into view. “That’s it. I’ve had enough,” she said, stopping on the sidewalk.

“There’s only one more street,” Piers said.

She looked at the last side road before the bridge to the island on which Notre Dame sat. She shook her head. “Sometimes I hate you. Lead on.”

A cardboard No Way Out sign had been shoddily tied to a lamppost at the street’s entrance. Sidney glanced down the road. “A dumpster, a dead end, and no sign of a Renault.” She sighed. “Any other bright ideas?”

Piers folded the map. “There’s a few more roads on the island.”

“They can wait. I’m going to sit down.” She walked off for a café. Piers took one last look down the dead end. “Wait.”

She stopped and looked back at him. “I need to sit down.”

“No. Look. Waterloo Large Construction.”

She rolled her eyes. “So?”

“That’s my company.”

“Terrific. I’m going to sit down.”

“Auguste spat at me when he saw the logo on my shirt.”

She threw her hands up. “Maybe he didn’t like your bloody cranes spoiling the view. Maybe your company turned him down for a job. Maybe,” she shook her head, “maybe he just didn’t like you.”

“Or, maybe he hated Waterloo for a reason.”

“Didn’t you just hear what I said?”

“Just wait a moment.” Piers started down the dead end. The road was blocked off a hundred yards down from the entrance. Cars lined either side, some of them double-parked to make the most of the dead end. The yellow dumpster had seen better days. It was the large sort. Piers forgot how much it contained, but he knew the big cranes were used to move them around and lift them onto 18-wheelers.

As he walked toward the dumpster he saw something else, a small patch of dirty color poking out behind it. He quickened his pace. It was hard to tell, but as he saw more of the color he started to run. Seconds later he was staring at a faded blue Renault 5. The stripe along the sides was missing from the passenger door. Probably as a result of accident damage and a re-spray. He waved to Sidney. She trudged toward him.

He walked around the car. It was wedged in by the dumpster. There were several holes in the tailgate that were large enough he could poke his middle finger into them. Through the windows he could see the holes lined up with holes in the seat backs.

He heard footsteps, which turned into a run. Sidney grabbed his arm. “My god, is this it?”

He nodded. “There are bullet holes in the rear.”

Sidney bounced up and down with her hands clasped together. “My god! Oh, my god. Oh, my god!”

He took hold of her hands. “Calm down. Don’t forget, we don’t want to attract attention.”

“Yes. Right.” She stooped to look in through the driver’s side window. “Is this definitely it?”

Piers tried the door. It opened with a creak. He looked inside before sliding into the seat. The glove box was empty as were the door bins, but wedged under the passenger’s seat he found a four-foot-long tube.

“Is that it?” Sidney said.

He looked up, unaware she had pushed her head into the car.

The tube opened easily, and the contents slid out when he shook it.

“It’s a painting,” Sidney said.

Piers folded over a portion of obviously fragile fabric. “Certainly seems to be.”

“Is it the right one?”

“How would I know?”

“What’s on it?”

He held it up so she could see. The head and wings of an angel were visible, with what looked like storm clouds and a rising sun behind.

Sidney gasped and grabbed hold of the door for support. “My god. That’s it.”

Piers slid the painting back into the tube. “You all right?”

She swallowed and looked at him. “Of course. Why shouldn’t I be?” She reached out to take the tube. “We just found the painting. A famous painting.”

Piers moved the tube away from her. “You know it?”

She ducked back out of the car. “Well, you know, I kind of recognize it. I couldn’t tell you what it’s called or anything.”

“But you said that’s it.”

“What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?”

“No. But I had no clue what painting we were looking for.”

“So, what, you think I knew?”

“Apparently.”

She screwed up her face. “That’s rubbish. It’s a painting. I vaguely recognize it and I’m sure it’s valuable. That’s all.”

Piers levered himself out of the car.

Sidney grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. “We figured it out. Well, you figured it out, really. But we found it. We can return it. Get it back where it belongs.”

Piers nodded. “We have to get in touch with Little and Large’s boss.”

Sidney stepped back. “Their boss?”

“Yeah. You don’t think we want to trust that pair, do you?”

“Well …”

“No. We need to deal with their boss to make sure this gets handed over and that we’re off the hook with these guys.”

He watched as Sidney’s nostrils flared and she clamped her jaw shut. She pushed her lips together so hard the pink almost disappeared. Then her smile returned and she put her arm through his. “You’re right. Come on. Let’s get away from here and sort it out.”

“Riiight.”

They walked out of the dead end and away from Notre Dame.

“We need to celebrate,” Sidney said.

Piers tapped the tube. “After we’ve handed this thing over.”

“It’s not a thing, it’s a precious painting. Either way, we need a good place.”

They passed a couple of restaurants until they reached a sign that read Epicure. “This one,” she said as she veered off into an expanse of tables set with white clothes fluttering in the wind. She talked to the maître d’, and waved for Piers to follow as they disappeared into the restaurant.

His skin prickled. He licked his lips and looked up and down the street. For once, he wished he saw the familiar faces of Little and Large.

He breathed deep and followed Sidney. Her hair drifted from side to side as she walked. Even in the low heels she had chosen in Places des Voges, she walked with supreme grace. She weaved around the tables with a spring in her step that had been absent while they were searching the side roads. He sighed.

She was exactly his sort. Hell, she was any man’s sort, but he wasn’t hers. Even in the clothes she had picked for him, he was no different than what he’d always been. Same old, same old. Once the painting was handed over she would run a mile.

Sidney directed the woman to a table in the corner, behind a pillar. The maître d’ looked surprised at her table choice, then handed them menus, and left. Piers placed the tube between himself and the wall, laying his arm across it for good measure.

Sidney flipped through the options in seconds. “Ratatouille. Plain and simple, just like me.”

“You just ate a couple of hours ago.”

“We found the painting. I’ve got my appetite back.”

“Obviously.”

She pulled the menu from Piers’ hands. “Aren’t you happy?”

He forced a smile. “Course.”

She lowered her head and stared at him through her fringes. “Course? That’s the best you can say? We found it. We’re done. It’s over. One moment we’re in fear for our lives and the next, poof, we’re back to normal. Surely that deserves some sort of celebration?”

“I’m only going be happy once we’ve handed this thing over.”

Her smile faded. “Yes. Soon.” She stood up. “Order for me. I’m going to the restroom.” She walked away, fumbling her phone from her pocket.

Piers watched her go, hypnotized by the spring in her step and the motion of her silky dress.

“Monsieur?”

Piers lurched back to the real world and grabbed for the tube.

A young man with black pants and a starched white shirt stood beside the table. “You are ready to order, non?”

Piers looked the guy up and down and scanned the restaurant before speaking. “Ratatouille. Twice. And two glasses of red wine.”

“Red?”

“Yeah, red.”

The man turned over the menu. “We have many reds, monsieur, if you like.” He paused, and his voice took on a bored tone, “Or we have the house red.”

Piers snapped the menu shut. “That’ll do.”

The young man departed and Piers surveyed the restaurant before pulling out Auguste’s phone. He turned to face the wall and dialed Little and Large.

Little answered on the first ring. “Where are you?”

“I never knew you cared.”

“Don’t get smart with me.”

“The merest hint of an inkling of a thought hadn’t even begun to start formulating in—”

“And don’t do that either. We’re on a tight schedule. The boss wants his stuff back.”

“Ah, pronto, as you said.”

“So?”

“So, what?”

“So, are you going to hand it back?”

“It’s not as simple as that. There are things to consider. Options. Permutations. Configurations—”

“And the likelihood that you’ll be killed if you don’t hand it over.”

“So, you think we should hand it over?”

There was a long pause. “You mean … you have it?”

“Uh-huh.”

There was an even longer pause. “You sure?”

“Course I’m sure. We found Auguste’s car and found it inside.”

Piers heard Little take a deep breath. “Right.”

“Right, what?”

“Right, just right, you know.”

“Right.”

Piers heard the pair talking in hushed tones before Little spoke into the phone again. “Okay. We need to let the boss know. Where are you?”

“Tell you boss we’ll meet him at Epicure. It’s a restaurant. We’ll be sat outside. Be there at seven.”

“No funny stuff.”

Piers huffed. “Trust me, we want this over as much as you do.”

He could hear Little clicking his tongue against his teeth. “There’s, er . . .”

“What?”

“Well, there’s something, I mean—”

“Just get on with it.”

Little took a depth breath. “Don’t mess with the boss. He’s isn’t called Matchstick for nothing. And … “

“And what?”

“He’ll bring another crew.”

Piers bit his lip. His heart raced and his mouth felt dry. He swallowed. “Meaning?”

“Not us. Trained killers. Real. Trained. Killers.”

Piers took deep breaths and tried to slow his heart. “Right.”

“Do what he says to the letter and you’ll be all right.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

The phone went dead as Sidney returned to the table. “Did they call?”

“I called them. Seven o’clock. Outside. We hand over the painting and try to get our lives back.”

“What?” Sidney grabbed her phone and checked the time. “Oh. Long enough.”

The waiter returned with their meals and two glasses of red wine, which he handled with his fingertips, as if he might catch something from them.

Piers stared at Sidney. “Long enough for what?”

“To eat,” she said, waving her fork.

The Ratatouille was good. The tomatoes and herbs had worked their way into the sliced vegetables to perfection.

“Good choice,” he said, holding up a red-tinged slice of zucchini.

“My comfort food.” She held up her glass. “Along with this.”

He clinked his glass with hers. “To normality.”

“Normality,” she chorused.

They ate for a few moments before she spoke again. “This is a different Friday night, eh?”

He nodded and ate some more. “Friday night. Yes. I guess you go out with your … I guess … I mean do you … “

She looked at him expectantly. “Do I what?”

He cleared his throat. “Do you … do you have … I mean … do you have a boyfriend?”

She snorted. It was part amused and part contemptuous, and Piers wasn’t sure which part was in the majority.

“Nah. I go out with some girls I know. You know. Try to enjoy ourselves without men.”

“Oh.”

She grunted. “It’s not like that. I want to meet someone, just not drunk in a bar, you know? I want to get to know someone before I go out with him. The men I’ve met in bars have only been as faithful as their options.”

Piers had to think for a moment before he understood. “Right.”

She put another forkful of vegetables in her mouth. “What do you look for in a girl?”

He forced down a mouthful of ratatouille. “I, I, I don’t really look—I mean, I don’t really know. I never thought about it.”

“You have to think about it. You have to know what you want. You can’t leave it to chance. You’ll end up unhappy.”

He nodded, uncertainly. “What do you want?”

She laughed. “A friend. Someone who stands up to me and doesn’t say yes just because they think it’ll make me happy. Because it won’t. Neither of us will end up happy. I want someone who’s willing to grab life, jump in with both feet. Someone who’ll drag me along as much as I drag them. Someone who’ll take me dancing before they think of dragging me to their bed. Someone like James Bond, but without the sappy floozies fawning all over him.”

He gave a false laugh. “Well, that leaves me out. I’ve seen the movies, but I don’t have the car.”

She winked at him. “At least you have the accent.” She curved her foot around his ankle and ran it slowly up his calf. “And … you do have some muscles.”

Piers tensed. The back of his neck prickled, and he licked his lips. “I, I work out. You know. A little. Not for strength, just endurance.”

She bit her bottom lip and smiled. “Mmmm, endurance.”

Piers swallowed and rubbed his hands together. He watched her gaze trace over his face, down his chest, and back up to his eyes. His blood thundered in his ears and the backs of his hands tingled. He wanted to get up, to cool down, to run away, to hide and think, to work out what he should say, to understand what he should do—but his muscles refused to cooperate. He was trapped between dying to say how he felt, and dying on the spot.

Sidney’s phone dinged and her smiled dissolved. Her gaze drifted away. Piers felt his heart pause, waiting for her look back at him, hoping for the chance to say the right thing, to say anything that would prolong the moment. But she stared at her phone and muttered, “junk mail,” before glancing around the room. “Six-thirty. We should have coffee.”

Piers sighed. His shoulders sagged and he closed his eyes for a second. He felt as if a cold wind had blown over him. He had to open and close his mouth twice before his voice worked. “Coffee?”

“Yeah, coffee. People have coffee after dinner. At least this people does.”

Piers arranged his knife and fork and pushed his plate away. His heart was pounding. He didn’t want the meal to end, but he told himself he would feel better when they had got rid of the painting. They had to focus on that first. He took a deep breath. “Okay. Let’s go outside.”

“No, let’s sit here.”

He shook his head. “I told Little and Large we’d be outside.”

“At seven o’clock, right?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s only six-thirty, so we can stay here a while longer.”

Piers looked around the room. It was quiet, and perhaps they should keep out of sight as much as possible. “Okay.”

A few minutes later, they chinked their coffee cups in a second toast. He sniffed at the thick black liquid. “I’m going to be up all night.”

She laughed. “I was hoping we’d be able to go to bed.”

Piers stopped breathing with his cup inches from his mouth.

She looked at him for a moment before laughing loud. “On my own, so wipe that look off your face.”

He felt as if his face was on fire. “I’m sorry, I didn’t . . . I wasn’t—”

“It’s okay, I’m teasing.” She punched him playfully on the shoulder.

He shuffled in his seat. “Of course. I wasn’t—”

The front door to the restaurant slammed and Sidney jerked her head up.

Piers twisted in his chair and saw an old couple being led to a table by the maître d’.

He looked back at Sidney. “Getting twitchy?”

“No, why should I?” She checked the time on her phone. “Still fifteen minutes yet.”

Piers leaned back in his chair. They’d have to go outside soon, but he didn’t want her doing anything rash. He took a deep breath. “There’s one thing you need to know.”

She turned her gaze slowly toward him. “What?”

“Little and Large warned me that their boss isn’t one to be messed with.”

She shrugged. “That’s not exactly a surprise.”

“And that he would be bring a different crew.”

Sidney cheeks sagged. She spoke slowly. “Meaning?”

“Meaning trained killers.”

She slapped her hand to her forehead. “Oh, god! Why didn’t you tell me? I thought it was going to be Little and Large, and now . . .”

“Now what?”

“Now . . . now …” She shook her head. “This isn’t good.”

“Obviously. I’ve no desire to meet trained killers either. But we’ll do it outside. On the street. With plenty of people around. That way they won’t be able to do anything, you know?”

“Like kill us if things don’t go their way?”

“Well—”

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me earlier?” She looked at her phone and shook it, as if willing it for some kind of answer.

“I didn’t want to frighten you.”

“Great, so you leave it until the last minute, until it’s a crisis.”

She started typing on her phone.

“What are you doing?”

She ignored him and finished her typing. Her phone dinged a moment later.

“Did you send a message to someone?”

“You’re just full of questions this evening, aren’t you?”

“Thinking ahead is what’s kept us alive. It’s why we’re here with a chance to get our lives back. Did you send a message to someone?”

She glowered at him. “Get your life back, maybe. My life will be the same as ever. Men tramping in, walking all over me and buggering off.”

“What do you mean? Are you talking about me?” He leaned forward. “Have I tramped all over you and buggered off?”

“We only met this morning, you haven’t had the chance yet.”

Piers clenched his jaw and breathed out hard. “Thank you very much, but don’t evade the question. I want to know, Sidney. Did you send a message to someone?”

Sidney stood up, crossed behind his chair and pulled the tube from beside him. She shook it in his face. “You don’t know what this is or what it means to some people.”

“So you do know something about it.”

“I know enough to know it can’t be replaced. I know enough to know some people would be heartbroken if they knew it had been taken. I know enough to know what’s important to a country’s heritage.”

“What are you talking about? Is this some kind of set up? Have you just been using me to find this painting?” He reached for the tube. She stepped away, whipping it behind her back. “All you care about is giving it to some murderous mob boss to save your own skin.”

He stared in her eyes. “I’m trying to save yours too, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“Yeah, right. Deflect the blame to keep your conscience happy. Just like you do with your mother—and probably everyone else you know.”

“I do not—”

Sidney turned and ran from the restaurant. He jolted to his feet, sending his chair flying across the floor. He saw the maître ‘d heading in his direction. He fumbled some notes from his wallet, threw them on the table, and ran after Sidney.

He stepped out onto the sidewalk and saw two large men holding Sidney, one arm apiece. She was still, but her eyes burned into Piers’.

A man in a cream suit stepped forward. “I believe this is mine.” He yanked the tube from Sidney’s hands. She gave a faint “No,” without looking at him.

“Morel?” said Piers.

The man turned to Piers. “So, you’re her lover, the one that helped steal this from me.”

“We didn’t steal it.”

The man sneered. “Non, non, of course you didn’t. You and this girl just happened to know where to find it … when my men tore this town apart looking for it and turned up nothing.”

“It’s not yours, anyway,” said Sidney.

“Oh, I believe it is. I paid for it.”

“You can’t. It can’t be bought, it’s part of our national heritage.”

The man huffed. “Our national heritage? You mean your national heritage.”

Sidney struggled against the men holding her and they redoubled their grips.

Piers glanced from Sidney to the boss. “National heritage?”

The boss smiled at him. “How precious. Lover boy doesn’t know.” He gave a sneer, “She’s not French, she’s an immigrant, an illegal immigrant, in case you’re wondering, which is why she didn’t want to go to the police: because they would have locked her up in an instant.”

Piers looked at Sidney. “Really?”

Sidney’s face froze, her lips parted and her eyes focused inches in front of her. She shuffled her weight from one foot to another. “Still not yours. It isn’t anyone’s to sell.”

The man tapped the tube. “Sell? I wasn’t selling. I paid for it. I bought this from your conniving dictator. Which brings us to my other interest.” He turned to Piers, “Where did you claim to find this?”

Piers stiffened. “In Auguste’s car. We worked out th—”

“Show me the car.”

Piers glanced at Sidney, but she was looking up and down the street. Was she thinking of running? The two guys had a very firm grip on her, but maybe she was hoping to get free when they were walking? These guys had to be carrying guns, and Piers didn’t fancy the idea of sprinting away from a hail of bullets.

The boss leaned forward, bringing his face inches from Piers’. His breath was filled with garlic and his eyes bored into Piers’. “I said, show me the car.”

Piers took a deep breath, and led them back to the dead end. He looked down the dimly lit road. It was an ideal hangout for muggers, only they were already hostages. He glanced behind and saw the boss, and behind him Sidney between the two men. What if Sidney did try to run? Would she get far? Maybe if she dodged between the cars so they wouldn’t have a clear shot. He licked his lips. If she ran, he would jump the men. Even a few moments’ distraction would probably be enough for her to disappear into the crowds on the main road.

Sweat trickled down his back. He wriggled to get his shirt to soak up his fear. Why did this guy want to see the car? Did he think he would find something else? What else could there be? Another painting? And what would Morel do if he did find something?

Piers stopped by the car.

“Open it,” said the Morel.

Piers popped the handle and the door opened with a tinny clank.

Morel pushed past him and sat in the driver’s seat. He looked over the glove box and rummaged in the central storage area. He twisted himself over to look under the seats, checked the rear of the car, then stepped out and glowered at Piers. “So where is—”

Piers heard weird ticking sounds behind him. As he rotated to look, Sidney screamed. One of the men holding her was falling to the ground, blood pouring down his face. The other man was already face down on the sidewalk.

Piers leapt for Sidney. “Get down!” He shoved her into the side of the dumpster and onto the ground. She rolled, wrestling herself free of his grip. He heard boots pounding on the sidewalk and prayed it was the police.

Sidney stood up. Piers dived after her. The giant he had knocked down with the motorbike appeared around the corner of the yellow dumpster. Piers couldn’t stop. The man threw one arm around Sidney and the other into Piers’ face. The man’s clenched fist smashed into his right cheek. Piers’ head jerked backward and pain bloomed across his face. His momentum lifted him into the air, his arms thrashing in circles. His body hammered down on the sidewalk, squeezing every last gasp of air from his lungs.

He rolled onto his side, struggling to breathe and clutching his ribs. His face felt on fire and his head felt as if it was being shaken with a jackhammer. Another large man appeared behind Morel, and a third man in a long coat stepped in between them.

“You bastard,” Morel said.

“Now, now,” said the man in the long coat.

“President Brunwald,” said Sidney.

Piers looked at the man in the long coat and back at Sidney. “You know him?” He felt another force grip his chest. President Brunwald? Brunwald? As in Brunwald the Butcher? The tyrant of Elbistonia?

Coughing, Piers rolled onto his knees. The giant holding Sidney pointed a large gun at him. “Don’t even think about it.”

Piers rolled back onto his side.

“Thank god you arrived,” Sidney said, as she tried to worm free of the man’s grip. “They were about to get away with the painting.”

Piers glowered at Sidney.

“Your message reached us just in time, my dear,” Brunwald said.

“You work for him?” Piers said.

Sidney glanced at him. “At least he’s trying to recover our country’s history, not sell it off like the man you work for.”

“I don’t work for anyone.”

“Yeah, right, Mr. Waterloo construction guy. For a software engineer you did a great impression of Sherlock Holmes finding that painting.”

“I—”

“That’s enough,” Brunwald said. He pulled the tube from the Morel’s hands. “I believe this is mine.”

“You took my money,” Morel said.

Brunwald shook his head. “Your man, Auguste, he took the money, not me. He tried to double cross us both, and failed.”

“Auguste would never double cross me.”

“Really.”

“He worked for me for twelve years. He never cheated, never disobeyed an order, and definitely never tried to take what wasn’t his. Hell, he never even asked for a raise.”

“And let me guess, you never offered one either?”

Morel shrugged. “Why give someone something they haven’t asked for?”

“So you were paying him the same for twelve years, and you don’t see a problem with that?”

“I don’t need some trumped-up dictator like you to tell me how to run my business.”

Brunwald’s face hardened. He spoke slowly. “Don’t ever tell a trumped-up dictator that.”

He turned back to Sidney and smiled. Behind him there was a small, sharp chug. The side of Morel’s face exploded, splattering flesh and blood over Auguste’s car.

Piers watched Morel slump sideway to the ground. He saw Sidney’s eyes following, too. She looked at Brunwald, her mouth open as if to speak, but Brunwald waved a finger. “He was a constant thorn, my dear.”

She swallowed. “You … killed … him.”

“A precaution, my dear.”

Brunwald turned to one of his men. “Get rid of them and search the car.”

Sidney’s mouth hung open. “You shot them.”

Brunwald gave a sympathetic smile. “A necessary evil, I’m afraid. They were the worst of the worst, in many ways.”

“But you shot them?”

“They were greedy, my dear. That man wanted the painting and hoped to cheat his way out of paying for it. So now, he’s paid for it.”

She shook her head. “But you don’t want anyone to pay for it. You said you wanted to save the painting, to take it home, back to Elbistonia. For the country.”

Brunwald placed his finger over his lips. Sidney’s mouth kept moving, but no sound came out.

Brunwald’s men threw the bodies into the giant dumpster, then turned to Auguste’s car. They ripped out the seats, the carpets, and the dashboard. They tore the interior door panels out, peered into the engine compartment, and slashed open the tires. When they finished they stuffed the debris back into the car and slammed the doors. The giant shook his head. Brunwald pursed his lips and looked at Piers and Sidney.

Piers took a step forward. “We had nothing to do with those people. I’m just—”

Brunwald held his hand up. “I know, I know. A software engineer from England. Caught in a terrible mix-up. A real boo-hoo tragedy. And you’re worried, quite correctly, that your life is in danger. It isn’t a good story . . . but we may still be able to find a happy ending.”

Sidney’s mouth stopped moving and she regained her power of speech. “But we found the painting. It’s in the tube. You have it.”

“Yes, my dear. You’ve been invaluable in regaining the painting. You and your lover.”

“I’m not her lover,” said Piers.

Brunwald place a finger across his lips. “Both of you have served me well. There’s just one more thing.”

“But you wanted to recover the painting,” Sidney said, “To take it back home, Elbistonia, where it belongs.”

Brunwald gave a soft laugh. “My dear, my country is going to rack and ruin. Discipline is failing in the police and the armed services. There have been riots. People have been killed. Government buildings have been attacked. My own car was blown up. I am only thankful it was my wife, and not me, in it.”

Brunwald crossed his hands behind his back. “No, there is no going back. I have done my utmost to serve my country. To bring order where there was chaos, and what do I get in return? Awards? Honors? Recognition? The thanks of a grateful nation? No, my dear. I have received none of these things. Not from Elbistonia, nor the international community. Therefore, there is only one thing left for me to do. Retire gracefully.”

“But the painting.”

“The painting is worthless.”

Sidney looked puzzled. “It’s a fake?”

“No, my dear. It is the real thing. However, I am forced to move quickly. I really must leave Europe for a country with, shall we say, less interest in extradition.

“So, you see, I don’t actually want the painting. No, no, no. What I want is the money.” He pointed to the dumpster. “The money that gentleman was going to pay for it.”

“But you said you were looking for the painting to return it.”

Brunwald forced his lips together into a thin flat line. “You are becoming something of a bore, my dear. I no more want the painting than I need either of you two alive.”

Piers inched toward Sidney. One of the dictator’s men pointed a silenced pistol at him and shook his head with a sneer. Piers froze.

“However.” The dictator stepped toward Piers “It occurs to me that you have done well to find the painting, and I am a fair man. So, I will give you until midday tomorrow to find the money.”

“We don’t have it,” Piers said.

“So you say.” Brunwald nodded to the giant holding Sidney. “You’ve met Kuznik, I believe. He isn’t well known for his compassion. Or his patience.”

The man pushed the barrel of his gun into the soft flesh under Sidney’s chin. She gagged and squirmed. The man yanked her hair back until she stopped fighting.

Brunwald patted Piers on the shoulder. “You are a resourceful young man. I suggest you make a greater effort in your search. And be warned: if I have any indication you have contacted the police.” Brunwald drew a finger across his throat. “You get the idea, I think.”

Piers’ heart pounded as if it was trying to jump from his chest, making his voice tremulous. “But we’ve searched his apartment, his safety deposit box, and his car. You’ve even searched his car. We haven’t seen a hint of any money. What do you expect us to do?”

Brunwald smiled at Piers. “Why, find it, Mr. Chapman, find it. You have until midday tomorrow. No more. If you are unsuccessful, we will be forced to deposit your girlfriend outside Notre Dame. And I emphasize deposit.”

“But I don’t know where this money is. I haven’t got a clue. There’s nothing I can do. You can’t be serious.”

“I think you will find I am quite serious.” Brunwald rapped his knuckles on the dumpster. “I would suggest you ask the previous people we dealt with on this issue but, of course, they are unavailable for comment.”

Sidney squirmed away from the gun in her throat. “You bastard.”

Brunwald laughed. “If, by that, you mean you have been foolish and gullible, and have undermined anything you and lover boy might have achieved together, my dear, you are correct. Your information has been invaluable. You were easily manipulated, but don’t think badly of yourself. I have manipulated better people than you just as easily.”

Brunwald’s Mercedes tore down the street, J-turned, and came to a stop beside him. Kuznik forced Sidney into the back, and Brunwald seated himself in the front.

Sidney leaned over Kuznik and looked up at Piers. She was biting her lip and tears streamed down her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean … I didn’t know …” She wiped her nose on her sleeve. “You must hate me.”

Piers’ mouth hung half open. His face felt numb. His eyes were frozen, staring at her, yet almost unable to see her. “No. Not hate. I didn’t . . .” He shook his head and forced his jaw to move and his voice box to speak. “I didn’t do this . . . any of it . . . not because I hate you.”

Her lower lip trembled. He reached for her and she stretched out her hand, but Kuznik yanked it back and closed the window. Piers watched Sidney dissolve into tears.

Brunwald tapped his watch. “Midday,” he flicked a card out of his window. “Don’t be late.”

Piers glimpsed a phone number as the card fluttered to the sidewalk, and the car raced away.