The Bordeaux Connection Read online

  Randek’s balaclava failed to hide his fury. “If we fail now, the secret will remain unknown. We act now, while we have that chance.”

  Once the flame went up, Randek placed it to two cotton swabs and brushed smoothly against the blank side of the canvas. Once finished, he rubbed his hand against the heat and blew on it.

  *

  “What is he doing?” Mr White asked.

  Maria understood what he was thinking. The terrorist attacks had both involved explosions; now one of them had lit a flame.

  Nevertheless, she watched on, quietly engrossed. If she didn’t know any better, she’d have guessed they were exposing the painting to heat.

  *

  Randek couldn’t believe his eyes. Even in the torchlight, the heat was clearly having the desired effect.

  Quietly he concentrated, seated in perfect stillness. The patterns that emerged could only be understood with learned observation; the type he knew few were capable of.

  Satisfied, he removed a small camera from his inside pocket and aimed it carefully, ensuring every inch of the canvas was captured. Then he repeated the process and looked at Everard.

  “Good. That will do.”

  *

  Mr White was baffled. On removing the painting from the frame and dabbing it with a heated swab, the man he assumed was Randek spent over a minute studying the apparently blank canvas before his accomplice opened the accompanying rucksack. He saw him remove something, a second canvas. Then something unthinkable happened.

  They swapped over the paintings, returned the replacement to the wall and prepared to leave.

  *

  Randek had already seen everything he needed to see. If time allowed, they would explore the scene in more detail, and in daylight. Nevertheless, the process had been useful.

  If the painting really did conceal the secrets he hoped it might, then the photographs would reveal everything.

  *

  Kit heard Mr White’s voice come through clearly. “Edward, this is the King. The enemy are preparing to retreat. I repeat, retreat.”

  Kit bit his lip. Though the possibility had been discussed, it had previously been labelled unlikely. The battle plan had been to secure the building and wait for the police. “Where are the police? What are our orders?”

  He detected a delay at the other end, as if a miscalculation had proven unforgiveable.

  “Take everyone on the north section to the main doors. Once inside, you, Mortimer and Grailly are to advance on the ground floor. Everybody else, the upstairs. Inside, Maria will give you guidance. Everyone on the south side is to stay where they are.”

  *

  Waiting in the wings of the gallery, the man by the windows detected movement close to the river. Though the sight of people close to the museum this late was not unheard of, there was something about the dark silhouettes through the glass that caught his attention.

  Randek was standing at the top of the stairs, barking out orders that the mission was over.

  The man by the window waited until the last second before taking his eyes off the glass and following Randek to the escape route.

  24

  Entry into the Musée d’Orsay was achieved with impeccable timing.

  First, they unlocked the door, which required the help of a guard. Next, came the deactivation of the main alarm, which had mysteriously already been switched off. To Mike, it explained Maria’s story about a painting being removed.

  It was still unclear who was responsible.

  The opening of the doors preceded the quick movement of footsteps. Once inside, three of the Harts took the stairs up to the wings. Radio sets crackled with precision, the awkward tones of familiar voices ringing in Mike’s ear. The upstairs had been deserted, the paintings, apparently, left untouched.

  Mike followed Kit’s orders. On passing through the main atrium, he took the stairway down into the heart of the museum, an open area with tiled flooring and lined with art and 19th century sculptures. Directly above him, the glass roof was like a magnifying glass into the sky, its features partially obscured by dirt and pollution. Above the west stairway, another grand clock, similar in character with those that marked the exterior, displayed the time as 1:07.

  The layout made things easier. Despite the regular presence of long, narrow benches, positioned close to the exhibits and often flanking minor stairways, the main aisle was wide enough for six people to move side by side without fear of damaging the displays. Even with the lights off, much of the interior was visible, again thanks partially to the architecture of the roof. Priceless artworks hung from walls on both sides of the gallery, the majority Impressionist. About midway along Mike made out a sign to his right with a picture of Van Gogh’s face and an arrow pointing to one of the upper levels. He recognised other pieces, one standing out above all others.

  Kit had crept up behind him, the purple light on his goggles having a bizarre illumination effect on his face.

  “Whistler’s Mother.” He recognised its famous features. “Should have known you were into Mr Bean.”

  On any other occasion, Mike might have mustered a smile. “This is all clear.”

  Kit spoke into his headset. “All knights report in.”

  Voices responded in rapid succession. “Upper floor clear.”

  “Stairway clear.”

  “Edward, this is Beauchamp. Reception area clear. Heading for the offices.”

  Beauchamp was a codename that was designated to the active deputy. Until recently, it had usually been his codename.

  “Roger that, Beauchamp. Maria, what news?”

  *

  Back on The King Richard, Maria hadn’t moved for more than an hour. “Lost visual eighty seconds ago. Camera 16 – same place they first appeared. Seems to be located somewhere on the ground floor. Head for the small stairway north of where you’re standing.”

  *

  “Roger that.” Kit grabbed Mike’s shoulder and gestured for Jay, who was crouching, gun at the ready, close to a large sculpture. Kit led the way to the top of a small stairway that led up from the lowest level to a second elevated aisle, decorated with, among other things, a sculpture of an angel and the painting L’Été by Pierre Puvis de Chavannes.

  Mike followed Kit up the stairs, his eyes moving from painting to painting. “Where are we heading?”

  Kit bit his lip. “Maria, where to?”

  *

  The mission to infiltrate the museum and leave undetected had so far proven a success. Walking the hidden stairwell with his specially designed cloth bag and five companions, Randek was satisfied the security staff had been good to their word. Honour amongst thieves was a conundrum – especially in an industry where CCTV cameras were prominent and reputation meant everything. Though he knew a CCTV blackout could never be realistic, he was aware through experience their identities were unlikely to be uncovered from the footage alone. They had taken every precaution; every millimetre of their faces had been covered, as had most other parts of their bodies.

  Everard stopped suddenly.

  “What?” Randek asked.

  “Listen.”

  Everyone stopped immediately, their footsteps shuffling. In the torchlight, sounds were difficult to pinpoint; judging from Everard’s expression, he sensed something was happening higher up. From the exit in the museum, the stairway descended; eventually it would lead back to the train line. Up above, the noise of metal expanding sounded like a gas tank vibrating against a series of shopping trollies. Until tonight, Randek had never seen the stairwell first hand; from its layout and position, he assumed it had been added in the past to allow for easy transportation between the museum and the station.

  He looked at Everard, puzzled. “What is it?”

  He raised his hand for quiet, his ears straining for any evidence of sound. “I can hear voices above.”

  *

  Maria’s instructions led them to the most logical of places. The escape had occurred in the north-east corner
, an area with a stairway connecting to an upper floor and with signs for male and female toilets. Thanks to the security cameras, Maria had been able to pinpoint the area exactly.

  Kit realised it presented only one option.

  There was only one door, it was marked Staff Only and was closed when they arrived. Entering, Kit found himself at the top of a metallic stairwell, the type he associated with fire escapes and multi-storey car parks.

  Mike entered next, followed by Jay, the features of the stairwell lit up by the lights on their goggles.

  Kit stopped before the first step and spoke through his headset. “Maria, I may need a satellite hook up. We seem to have run into something unexpected.”

  “What?”

  “The door led to some form of metallic stairwell that only heads down. Follow it, we could walk into an ambush.”

  At the other end, Maria had no definitive answers. “The building used to be a train station; the RER runs right beneath it, so it might come out near the station or on the line . . . how old is it?”

  Kit knelt down and studied the structure with both hands. “Looks modern enough, mid-sixties if I had to guess.”

  “Before the museum opened. Right about the time the building served as a hotel.”

  To Kit that made perfect sense. “Just the sort of thing to help take in supplies.”

  “What can I say? In many ways the building’s history is as fascinating as its artwork.”

  “Let’s not lose track of ourselves.” He rose to his feet, the light above his face illuminating the features of his colleagues. “Beauchamp, this is Edward. Follow my directions. I may need your assistance.”

  *

  To Everard, the sound of the voices was clear. Not loud, but enough to carry. The voices were male, the language unquestionably English.

  Instinct told him there could only be one possible source.

  They were close to the end of the stairway, metres away at best. In the torchlight, the outline of the door was visible, its rectangular frame cutting into the wall like a primitive mine shaft.

  Randek was standing at the bottom, preoccupied. He clung tightly to the strap of his bag and looked his comrades in the eye.

  “You and you,” he barked at two of the four. “You stay behind. Watch our escape. Whatever happens, this,” he gestured to his bag that concealed the priceless artwork, “must be preserved at all costs.”

  *

  The stairwell descended in the usual way: clockwise and in banks of four. Kit led the way; Mike and Jay brought up the rear. All proceeded with their goggles set to night vision.

  Beauchamp had joined them, along with two others. While he was blond, the other two had darker hair. Each man was over six feet in height, their bodies capable of bench-pressing their own weight, at least 85kg. Identical PP-19 submachine guns, all of which they had fired before, were held confidently in their hands. While Kit had known Beauchamp since the beginning, the other two were both younger, though no longer inexperienced. While Beauchamp had spent the last forty-eight hours sweeping the rooms of Dorneywood, and, after that, conducting a lone vigil at Gatwick for any sign of an Everard getaway, the others had done similar things at Heathrow and Stansted. Like all members of The White Hart on operation, they were known by codenames:

  Stafford and Salisbury.

  A blaze of gunfire caught them unaware. Mike lost his footing; he stumbled backwards, falling on the stairs.

  In front of him, he saw five bodies dive in different directions. Beauchamp and Salisbury rolled forward; Jay hung tightly to the wall. He heard Kit shout something, Beauchamp something else.

  Their words were inaudible because of the gunfire.

  Mike put his hand to his night-vision goggles that had become lopsided as a result of his fall. Steadying himself, he edged backward, carefully surveying the stairwell below. Kit was on one knee, the others on their front, guns raised.

  He could tell no one was injured.

  Further down, he made out features: two silhouettes, standing at least two storeys beneath them. The gunfire resumed, definitely from below. Bullets ricocheted off the walls, causing sparks.

  Thanks to the design of the stairwell, they were in little danger of being hit from beneath.

  Kit was shouting again. Amidst the gunfire Mike made out the words “Hold Back” before returning fire. A colourless blaze dominated the features of his eyepiece for over a second. Judging by the enemies’ rapid movements, his aim was close.

  Mike retreated up the previous turn of the stairwell, directly opposite Kit and Beauchamp. The first thought that entered his head was of the impeccable mission the terrorists had carried out in Edinburgh. Twenty-four of Scotland’s finest operatives had been taken out, not killed but knocked out.

  He removed a sleeping gas canister from his belt and threw it in the direction of the two enemies that he could see. Smoke erupted as the bomb fell, bouncing against the metal underfoot and away down the stairs. Immediately he launched a second; it landed within a metre of both men. Smoke dispensed immediately; through the cloudy veil, he saw them fall to the floor.

  The gunfire stopped.

  Kit removed his goggles and looked up the stairs. For a moment Mike expected a reprimand. In the end he said nothing.

  “Come on.”

  *

  Kit was the first to reach the bodies. The men were white; one clean-shaven, the other more rugged. Both were dressed in black clothing, Kit associated the type with his own profession. The guns they’d carried had been AK-47s, but that was only the crown of their arsenal.

  It would take a lecture from Phil to make sense of everything.

  The stairwell continued in the same manner, clockwise and in four passages of ten. On reaching the bottom, a second doorway revealed itself; again marked with a sign that read Staff Only.

  Kit stopped on reaching the door. He smashed it open with his foot and dived behind the nearest wall.

  Silence.

  He got back on to his feet and edged back towards the door, feeling it with his left hand. It was made of dense metal, heavy enough to close under its own weight.

  He opened it again, this time slowly. The sight that met him was one of darkness. Reactivating the night-vision setting on his goggles, he made out features immediately. The layout confirmed he was in a tunnel, probably beneath the ground.

  “Maria, you were right. We’ve come out at the railway line.”

  *

  Phil had been standing on the lower deck for over five minutes. With Maria on the laptop and no lab on board, surveillance of the banks seemed the only logical thing to do.

  At 1:11 a.m., he saw movement. A boat had appeared from the west along the Seine. He estimated its speed at around eight knots. Using his field glasses, he identified a large cabin cruiser, its driver a long-haired scruffy man, aged somewhere in his thirties.

  As the boat came level with the Musée d’Orsay, he saw the driver kill the motors and glide it safely towards the bank.

  He spoke into his mouthpiece. “Maria, tell the King to get up here. There’s something he needs to see.”

  *

  Left or right – that’s the call.

  Kit faced his men in turn, ending with Mike. “Right, let’s keep this simple. Grailly, you and Mortimer take the left,” he said to Jay, referencing Mike. “The rest of you come with me.”

  Maria interrupted, words audible to all six. “If you head east, the next station on is the Gare de Saint-Michel at Notre Dame. It’s a solid two kilometres from where you are.”

  Kit placed his hand to his face. He estimated it represented a ten-minute run on an even surface for any of his men. He doubted Randek would take the risk on a train track in the dark.

  “In that case, get Grosmont and the others waiting on the other side. If they can’t get out that way, they’ll have no choice but to head back.

  “That way we’ll sandwich them in.”

  25

  RER C had been dubbed the Museums’
Line because it mainly served sites of historic interest. It officially opened in 1979 and had developed into the second largest of the five lines.

  Inside the city, the RER was identical to the Metro, in some cases faster because there were fewer stops. In the day, an estimated 500,000 people would climb aboard 530 trains, the last ending at just after midnight.

  A time when the majority had already returned home.

  The layout reminded Kit of the London Underground. Even though the station was closed, the platforms remained backlit, countless billboards showing up alongside vacant benches and vending machines.

  Again Kit took the lead. He sprinted across a deserted platform and headed towards the exit to the streets. Approaching the top of the stairs, he stopped in his tracks. The gated partition had been vandalised, allowing access.

  “Maria, the gate to the RER has been breached. Suspects must have come out via the main stairway. Most likely destinations are east on Place Henry de Montherlant or west on Quai Anatole-France.”

  He emerged at street level, looking rapidly from side to side. Directly to his right, the main façade of the Musée d’Orsay lit up the night like a rising moon; while to his left The King Richard floated gently between the north and south banks. After being underground, the air felt bracing, the sounds of the city echoed in his ears. There was no traffic in either direction; he remembered the road had earlier been cordoned off.

  *

  Maria leapt out of her seat and sprinted up to the lower deck.

  “I’ll instruct Grosmont to return with the others. If they’re heading for Notre Dame they won’t get far.”

  She made it to the deck, where Phil and Mr White were still standing, both with their eyes fixed on the south bank. A white cabin cruiser had docked near the restaurant by the Passerelle de Solférino.

  She looked on in disbelief as four men in dark attire sprinted towards it.

  *

  Kit’s first thought was that the gang would seek to make their getaway by river. His instincts told him it was the most likely option.

  As far as Mike was aware, they had never failed him.