The Bordeaux Connection Page 18

  Whoever the boss was, he was not a man likely to be argued with.

  Mike peered through his high-powered binoculars, taking in the south bank of the Seine. The eyepieces were not the same as the ones he’d used the night before; even compared to the opera glasses the specifications were impressive.

  It was after midnight, but not totally dark. It was Paris, and that was explanation enough. The City of Light was living up to its name. On both sides of the water, the illumination of the numerous buildings of architectural beauty lit up the night like an airport landing strip. A gentle hum protruded the stillness: faraway cars driving the streets at various speeds towards an infinite number of different destinations. For those used to the city it was the sound of the city itself, one easily forgotten if you were used to it being there. Among the noises, Mike could hear intermittent sirens, unfamiliar high-pitched whining sounds that reminded him he was no longer in Blighty. They reminded him too of other things: his first mission, another botched art theft, this time centred on the building behind him, whose famous glass pyramid reflected the light like a crystal maze. It also brought back memories of the films of his youth, the inspiration for his later career choice. Then there were also the holidays of his youth, weeklong stays in the cities of culture with his parents, siblings, and grandparents. His grandmother had once nearly lost her life in Paris to an ambulance, apparently heading on the wrong side of the road over one of the city’s famous bridges. He smiled as he remembered before reminding himself of the most important thing the sound represented. The sound of crime. And chasing crime.

  The reason he was there.

  The boat had been hired in Paris. According to Kit, it represented a gentleman’s agreement between The White Hart and a group of similar men whose origins were equally well hidden from the wider world. The boat was a small white yacht with the name Suzanne inscribed across the port bow. They didn’t call it that. Like every boat in the fleet, its codename was The King Richard.

  Mike lowered the binoculars and placed them down on the sideboard. Even without them, the main sights were easily visible. Across the water, the exterior of the Musée d’Orsay oversaw the south bank like a small palace. Like many buildings he’d seen recently, there was a sense of symmetry about the design. Two large towers rose above the main hall at either end where two grand clocks commanded pride of place, as if binary stars governing a small solar system. There was light visible from the windows, but even from the boat he could tell it wasn’t internal, the glass arches instead reflecting the nearby streetlights like a dirty mirror. The floodlights caused the building to reflect off the water, creating a magnificent double image. It posed another timely reminder – one he knew might prove of imminent relevance.

  What exactly existed beneath the ground?

  He heard footsteps to his right. Kit was walking towards him, dressed in his finest black-ops gear. Like himself, he’d mastered a unique blend of being prepared without appearing suspicious.

  Kit stopped alongside Mike and leaned against the metal railing, his eyes on the water. “The boat in Peterhead was a cabin cruiser, once registered to one of Randek’s companies. Interestingly, he apparently got rid of it as a tax write off two years ago.”

  “A man who needs more practice filling in forms, perhaps?” Mike looked to his right, his strong blue eyes displaying clear scepticism. “You honestly believe he’d be stupid enough to use the same boat tonight?”

  “No. However, if the Foreign Secretary is correct there will be a boat involved. If it were me I’d probably arrive a different way and leave the boat till the end. If you’re a professional art thief or a terrorist, you don’t leave a boat parked where the entire city can see it. Nevertheless, based on events in Edinburgh it stands to reason if they do use a boat it’ll probably be something similar.”

  Mike nodded. The logic, at least, was plausible; not that determining what was plausible was easy right now.

  The last twenty-four hours had been hectic, though there was nothing new in that. The day had started early. The car had come to Chevening at 7 a.m., sent from Whitehall to collect the Deputy PM’s wife. She left looking a picture of health, which was more than Mike had expected. The fully stocked wardrobe in the second largest of the house’s 115 bedrooms had given her ample preparation for what he guessed would be a day of intense questioning, mostly about Randek. Even if Mr White didn’t get the opportunity to grill her personally, he knew others would.

  Including her husband.

  He’d left Chevening with Kit at the same time, their destination Charlestown. The briefing was done by phone, the rest on the plane. It landed at 19:30, thirteen hours after he’d risen from an awkward and interrupted sleep. The orders had been specific. Mrs Hughes was to remain under twenty-four-hour guard.

  He lowered his eyes to the sideboard and sipped coffee from a flask. The wait had already lasted over four hours. Only one thing now was certain.

  Nothing was certain.

  *

  The building had originally been used as a train station. Before that it had been a palace. The palace had been constructed in the 1800s on the orders of the Emperor Napoleon.

  And destroyed as an act of defiance against Napoleon III.

  The replacement had been built at the turn of the 20th century as part of the Paris-Orléans railway; Randek had always loved how reference to its former use could still be found on the building’s façade, along with the names of the other cities through which the line had passed en route. Once upon a time it had been the first electrified urban railway terminal in the world.

  Even today, the lower levels continued to be used.

  But even more important were the things no longer in use, things most people never realised even existed. One thing Randek had learned from history is that the last things to survive are usually the first things ever laid. The plans for the original building were kept in the Musée Carnavalet, including the outlines of the foundation.

  Viewing them had been useful.

  *

  How do you stop someone who knows more than you and is operating two steps ahead? Maria felt she’d figured out a way. If the Foreign Secretary was correct, their proposed route into the museum itself was predetermined. The target was one specific work of art; apparently he didn’t know which. If the heart of the plan involved cooperation with the guards, the best option was the most straightforward.

  Get to the guards first.

  Alone in a square room beneath the lower deck, Maria gazed unblinkingly at her laptop as the scenes in front of her continued to unfold. The infrared CCTV cameras that had been placed at various points throughout the building, centring on various items of importance, allowed her a complete view of the interior, including the logical exits. She arranged the display in blocks of sixteen, the images rotating consistently to allow a constant stream of updates.

  The sights hadn’t changed much so far. Every so often she’d see a light appear, a torch belonging to a night watchman, passing by on his regular rounds. She knew what she was looking for would probably be more discreet.

  Even if Randek had achieved a guaranteed entry, he’d still have the cameras to contend with.

  She heard a noise from the nearby doorway. Mr White had appeared, his features a picture of concentration.

  “What’s happening in there?”

  “No change, sir.”

  “Keep watching. Remember, it only takes a second.”

  23

  The entry was made from beneath the museum. Once upon a time, the area that was now the RER had formed part of an undercroft, used by the palace governors to store supplies and keep prisoners. It was evident from the layout that the area was still used regularly, mostly by engineers ignorant of its historical pedigree.

  Randek knew exactly where he was going. The original plans in the museum confirmed the architect’s layout, and comparing it to the modern day equivalent had been easy. Over the preceding two months, he’d planned everything, up to
the last second. It never paid to take chances, particularly with something so priceless at stake. Even at the late hour, it was never impossible an employee leaving late or on the night shift could turn up in the wrong place at the wrong time. The intelligence received two hours earlier confirmed everyone was scheduled to be off duty.

  Entry through the first door had also proven easy. Safely inside, the next part would be more difficult. Darkness can help or hinder. Despite little chance of being observed, visibility was almost non-existent. What began as a maintenance chamber, used by the engineers, led through a gap in the foundation wall and out on to the main track. Though the official timetable confirmed there was no chance of a train passing by within the coming hours, walking the line with so little light made him nervous.

  Two hundred metres further along, a second door emerged to his left, this one better concealed and cut deeply into the wall. On the other side, a metallic stairway rose up at least three storeys; if the reports were correct it headed into the museum itself.

  Everything had gone according to plan.

  The way in was completely unguarded.

  *

  At 1:03 a.m. Maria finally saw something appear on the screen. The movement had been slight, easily missed had she not been paying close attention.

  It appeared first on Camera 16, a series of balaclava-covered heads moving in the darkness. They appeared again on Camera 27, then 19, 43, 56 and 73. Over the course of the next minute she saw movement on over thirty.

  Phil was standing in the corner of the room, refreshing a flask of coffee.

  “Get me the Director. Tell him we’ve got a visual.”

  *

  Mike heard the call being made from his right. The others were getting the message, and heading down to the lower deck.

  Mr White was standing on the deck with his hands placed against the small of his back, watching the men in quiet judgement as they lined up in two ranks of six.

  “Our visuals confirm we’re dealing with six. Each are armed, and we can assume highly dangerous.”

  “Any familiar faces?” Kit asked, detecting a pause.

  “Their faces were covered, but for now we’ll work on the assumption that they are. Your first concern will be to control the perimeter. That means twelve of you at every corner, one for each hour of the clock.” He gestured with his hands. “Remember! The responsibility for the artefacts lies with the staff and the Paris police. Your own responsibility is solely the capturing of terrorists. Do not confuse these duties. Good luck, and stay in regular contact.”

  *

  Within seconds of receiving the order, four speedboats cast off from The King Richard, their rotary blades kicking up water as they sped towards the south bank.

  Mike rested on one knee, his eyes fixed on the famous museum. He remembered visiting it years ago with his family; his father had made a habit of touring the area at night with a tripod and an early digital camera, taking photos that would later appear in travel magazines. As a fifteen-year-old, deprived of a games console, a driving licence or a fake ID, joining him had been the easy alternative to staying in. His mum had never been much of a walker, particularly in foreign cities at night, and anything beat sharing a room with his brother and sister. Being the middle child was a strange position, especially in a family where no two people were alike. From all corners of the world, people came to Paris for many reasons: the culture, the art, the women, the wine. His parents, he knew, had come for three of the four.

  Others came only because their parents told them to.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder. Kit was behind him, alongside Jay and in front of the driver, a fully loaded USP45 in his right hand.

  “Keep in regular contact. If anything goes wrong, get the hell out of there.”

  Mike was unsure whether he was experiencing genuine sibling-style concern or whether the instruction was strictly military.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “I’m not talking about your health. Remember, there are more lives at stake than merely our own. And tonight you call me Edward.”

  Like every member of The White Hart, Edward was a codename reserved only for one. Like his own codename, Mortimer, it was a name that designated an operative’s role in the modern hierarchy, inspired by tradition. In the early days of the order, the leader on the battlefield was the son of the king. Some referred to him as My Lord, others Cornwall. Many the Black Prince.

  Like his father, the king, he was named Edward.

  “Yes, sir.”

  *

  The four speedboats lingered briefly on the south bank as the twelve men of military stature disembarked and spread out around the nearest building. The Paris police had discreetly closed off the roads that surrounded it on every corner with signs inferring that roadworks were in progress. If a pedestrian taking a late walk had been sharp enough to see twelve human figures circling the building, there was no way they could get close enough to ask questions. Each man had been formally drilled, and chosen for their ability to perform impeccably under pressure.

  Little was expected to change.

  *

  As the twelve disembarked, the drivers of the four boats turned on the water and headed slowly back towards The King Richard.

  Standing on the upper deck, the Director of The White Hart watched the launch through his field glasses before heading below deck into the main office where Maria was still gazing at her laptop.

  “What’s happening in there?”

  For Maria, the last sixty seconds had proved surprisingly boring. “Someone has posted two men close to the entrance, both on the main stairs. He’s also posted one where they came in and a fourth on the upper storey, possibly as a lookout.”

  Mr White watched the footage from over her shoulder, focusing on the sixteen boxes. “Zoom in on 25.”

  Maria obliged, and zoomed in over the entrance. One of the men was standing close to the reception area; the other, two steps up the main stairway that led down into the ground floor. Both were dressed all in black and armed with what appeared to be AK-47s.

  The third man stood somewhere on the ground floor, where, according to Maria, the intruders had gained entry.

  The last man was on the top floor, an area abundant in paintings. He stood by one of the windows that had once been an original feature of the former station. Maria didn’t know the building well enough to decide whether the glass offered reasonable observation or whether it was simply for show.

  “Where are the others?”

  Maria clicked the mouse, rapidly bringing a new window into view. Two masked men, she guessed Randek and Everard, appeared on Camera 42, admiring a work of art.

  Maria instantly recognised it. “Albert Lebourg’s Paris, l’écluse de la Monnaie.”

  “A valuable piece?”

  “Absolutely, but I can think of better targets. Van Gogh’s Starry Night over the Rhone for starters.”

  Mr White turned away from Maria and spoke into his headset. “Edward. This is the King.”

  At the other end, Kit replied, “Come in, Sire.”

  “There are two shooters by the main entrance and another looking down from the windows. Proceed with caution.”

  “Roger that.”

  *

  At the other end, Kit – or Edward – passed on orders in a low voice as the men created a circle around the building, their frames hidden by nearby landmarks or parked cars. In the past, the role of Edward had belonged to another.

  Tonight, he was making his debut.

  *

  Less than ten metres to Kit’s left, Mike stroked the barrel of his gun with his free hand as he gazed up at the arched mullioned windows in the yellow stonewalls. Despite the external floodlights, he could see nothing of the building’s interior, the light having a distortion effect as it hit the glass.

  If the new intelligence was correct, the enemy was outnumbered two-to-one. Whether that was an advantage or not remained unclear. The reports from Edinburgh we
re that the Scots’ numerical advantage had been five-to-one, and the defeat had been catastrophic.

  He heard Kit’s voice in his ear. “Attention north side. Possible shooters on the first floor and the stairs. Keep well covered.”

  Mike replied, “Roger that.” His earpiece echoed as four others answered at the same time. He edged to his left, taking shelter behind a white van, parked deliberately to give shelter.

  “I don’t like this, Edward.”

  Kit looked at him from his right. “You don’t have to. All you have to do is stay where you are.”

  *

  Everard stood alongside Randek, taking in the features of the painting. Though Impressionism had never been his favourite art form, he loved the way the city’s famous outlines appeared as though shrouded in mist.

  He approached the painting from the right side, awaiting Randek’s instruction. Judging by its size and appearance, it would be heavier than most he’d handled recently.

  *

  “You might want to see this.” Maria called for Mr White, who was currently in conversation with Atkins. Both headed for her immediately, the Director cutting Atkins off mid-sentence.

  One of the masked men had removed the painting from the frame, taking great care to ensure no damage was done. Despite the lack of light, his actions guided by the single glow of the other’s torch, he seemed to make easy work of it.

  “Needless to say he’s done that before,” Atkins commented.

  *

  As the painting came free, Randek took the canvas in his hand and slowly turned it over. The back appeared to be blank, as most were, the ghostly shapes of the main thing coming through as a mirror image.

  Randek settled nonchalantly on one of the many benches placed selectively throughout the main hall. He nodded at Everard, who sat down alongside him, preparing to light a match.

  “I don’t like this,” Everard said, eyeing the nearby walls with suspicious eyes. “If a guard returns we are done for.”