Mid-morning in Paris is cluttered with tourists – early tour buses unloading at their first attraction (“Follow the red umbrella, and remember the number of your bus.”) and “smart” two-a-day sightseers, crowding in to beat the crowds.  Emily sidestepped the ticket line at the Museum of Modern Art and used her association card to get in through the staff entrance.  As a student, she had spent hundreds of hours here, mapping the displays, calculating traffic patterns, studying the effects of light and shadow.  Although she’d done her first internship at Le Petit Palais, it was here she learned the nuts and bolts of display and design.  She knew this gallery as well as any of the people who worked here.  She walked through the familiar rooms, pausing to sit in front of a few old favourites, avoiding the famous works obscured by herds of cellphone cameras.  Some things had changed, but it was mostly the same — a small stroll down memory lane.  Except – and this was odd — she had a feeling that something wasn’t right.  Something didn’t fit.  She’d set up enough gallery exhibitions to trust her instincts, but she couldn’t put her finger on it – and it bothered her.  She walked through a few more rooms.  She stopped, sat down and watched the people – and the paintings – and the people again.  And then she saw it.  She waited, but nothing changed.  She got up and walked through several more rooms.  They were all the same.  She considered the options and decided she needed to think about it.  She went down to the café and bought coffee and a pastry.  Her mind immediately went to Sinclair.

In the conference room, back at the hotel, Sinclair and DeMonta were done with the details.  Like all good plans, it was simple, with very few moving parts and no unnecessary transitions.  On day one, Team One arrives at the gallery with equipment, uniforms, credentials and official papers.  They find the middle managers and explain they will be working in the street near the entrance, upgrading data and telephone lines.  This shouldn’t cause any problems, but there might be an occasional disruption — probably just to the Internet or maybe telephone services.  They won’t last more than a few seconds, certainly less than a minute.  They get a couple of signatures on formal-looking work orders, apologize for the inconvenience and thank everybody very much.  Then they go back to the street, set up a construction site and open the vertical shaft to the junction box in the sewer system.  For the next few days, they make themselves conspicuous – part of the landscape — laughing, saying good morning, eating lunch and, every once in a while, pulling a plug and replacing it.  More apologies, a few complaints but mostly workmen regularly seen inside the gallery to “fix” the problem.  On day five, twenty minutes before closing time, a well-recognized brown delivery van drives up to the entrance.  Team One goes down the excavation shaft, cuts all the trunk lines at the junction box (telephone, Internet, alarm system, power) then disappears into the sewers.  Team Two gets out of the van and goes into the gallery.  They each go directly to their designated painting, lift it off the wall and take it back to the van.  The van drives away – one of many in a busy city.

“It’s as close to perfect as possible,” Simon said, hobbling away from the big conference table to the sideboard.

Dreyfus knew that tone. “But?” he said.

Simon poured water into a glass.

“But. . . ” Simon leaned on his cane and drank. “Look, I trust your guys.  If you say they’re 100%, okay, good enough for me.  They do the thing, no problem, but …” Simon slowly shook his head, “They gotta sell it.  They don’t sell it …?  Puhh!  Team Two needs that extra minute.  It’s gotta feel normal when they go into the gallery.  If it doesn’t, somebody’s going to get excited.  Too much time and our boys are flatfooted.  Those paintings might get off the wall, but they’re never gettin’ out the door — and we’re dead as disco.  They gotta sell it right from the get-go, and that’s a lotta trust with guys we don’t know.”

Simon put the glass down.

“And … we haven’t taken care of the concerned citizen.  Some taxpayer decides he’s going to be a hero?  Even on the street?  That screws everything.  We need muscle.  Something loud and scary to make sure everybody thinks twice about goin’ ‘Vive La France’ on our ass.”

Dreyfus picked a long plastic line of ID badges out of the suitcase.  He’d seen the holes too and had already decided to fix them.

“We’ve already got all the material.” Dreyfus lifted the badges in the air, “That’s done.  We can’t add anybody now without throwing the timetable off.  Besides, you and I both know muscle’s a whole different ballgame.  My people don’t do that.  We’d have to farm it out.”

Dreyfus shook his head. “Too much risk.  I’ll do it.  I’ll go in with the first team, sell the hell out of it, stay for the transition and I’m the muscle.  Nothing else changes.  I’ll do it.”

“You don’t speak French,” Simon said, reaching across the sideboard for a wine bottle.

“I got enough to get by.  Besides, city workers?  We’re Romanians or something.” Dreyfus shrugged, “The people at the gallery aren’t going to know the difference.”

“What about your girl?”

Dreyfus looked across at Simon. “Corkscrew’s by the glasses,” he said.

—

Emily And Dreyfus – 1

It was early, but the morning light was strong when Emily woke up.  She had slept deeply, and it took her a few seconds to realize where she was.  “Paris?  Paris!”  She rolled over.  Sinclair was gone.  Quelle surprise!  She got dressed, combed her hair with her fingers, thought about make-up, said “to hell with it” and went down for the hotel breakfast.  Sinclair would find her when he wanted to, but until then it was her Paris, too.   Breakfast was coffee, an egg, a croissant and Le Figaro, while she figured out what kind of a day she would have.  Unfortunately, her choices were limited because, the truth was, Emily Perry-Turner, the Duchess of Weldon was broke.  Of course, she had walking-around money, but anything beyond that was committed to an inherited pit of debt and the insane expenses of keeping a crumbling estate off the auction block.  Shopping in Paris had always been dear to Emily’s heart, but, in recent history, it was a luxury she simply could not afford.  So, it was either a book in the park – Luxembourg, probably – or a couple of galleries.  Galleries won the toss.  Emily laughed to herself.  At least she get to see some art before Sinclair stole it all.  She drank her coffee and idly wondered what he was doing.

Actually, Dreyfus was upstairs in the fifth floor meeting room, unfolding a transparent map of the Paris sewers and trying to orient it to the street map underneath.  In Paris, the sewers aren’t only used for waste water; the tunnels also carry all the power, data and telephone lines.  This makes them some of the most accessible in the world, and there are even tourist tours.  However, Dreyfus and Simon DeMonta’s interest was purely business.  There were looking for the vertical shaft on the Rue de Thorigny – and they found it.

“Okay, we’ll use a four man team,” Simon said. “Here,” he pointed.

“They set up — construction barriers, tape, the whole deal — and dig down.  Probably take them a day, but they need to be there for at least five.  People have to be used to seeing them.  Part of the landscape.  No problem.  Then, day five, they cut the power, switch with the second team and disappear.  Team Two goes into the building.  We need to scope that out.  All the what, wheres and whyfores, so they’re in and out.  How about your girl?  She knows this stuff.”

“No, I’ll do it.  I don’t want her involved.”

“Okay.  Anyway, they grab the paintings, back on the street and into a car.  Van probably.  They disappear.  Our guy in the van – uh – where’s the other map?  He takes them and gone – uh — somewhere.  All we have to do is work out a drop for us to pick them up.”

“No, my people will take care of that.  We’re never going near.  They’ll keep them and handle the negotiations.  We hang around like it’s a holiday.”

Simon looked sceptical.

“You’re sure about these guys?  I don’t want anybody getting greedy.”

“No, hundred percent.  I use these people all the time.  They’re not cowboys.  We need to work out the details to the minute and just tell them what to do.”

“Okay,” Simon said and sat down. “First we need a timetable.”

Emily stepped out into the street.  The whole city was in the full gush of spring, dancing with a hundred shades of Monet green.   It was beautiful, but for Emily, Paris was always a city in black and white, like a Truffaut film.  She preferred the grey stone streets to the sparkling boulevards, the sidewalks to the parks and vin de maison to Dom Perignon.  That’s why she decided to bypass the Louvre and the Musee d’Orsay and make her way to the Paris Museum of Modern Art.

—

Emily And Dreyfus – 1

Dreyfus poured himself another cup of coffee.  They’d booked a meeting room in the hotel, and he was alone at the big table.  He opened the third suitcase that had magically appeared at the airport.  Everything was neatly arranged in individual packages, sealed in shrink-wrap plastic.  He sorted through and found the maps.  He put them on the table and carefully replaced everything else.  Now, there was nothing for him to do until Simon got there.  He took his coffee and pulled a chair up to the big window.  He sat down, looked out at the early spring morning and waited.

Last night had been better than he’d expected – Simon DeMonta was an acquired taste, and Emily could be acid when she felt like it.  But they both had behaved themselves.  Simon, full of the old-fashioned chivalry hard men reserve for respected women, and Emily listening attentively to his rambling stories and laughing in all the right places.  And neither of them asked any questions.  They’d stayed for an early dinner, and over coffee and cognac, Simon reached across and touched Emily’s hand.

“I don’t know what you’re doing here.  And I don’t know what Dreyfus told you.” Without looking away from Emily’s face, he slowly raised his index finger at Dreyfus.

“But it doesn’t matter ‘cause you strike me as smart enough to figure out something’s going on.”

There was a second of silence. “So, do you want to know or not?”

Emily left her hand where it was.  This was uncharted territory.  Normally, she left Sinclair to Sinclair, and he’d already told her anything she wanted to know, but this was too bizarre to walk away from.  She smiled and added a little mischief to her mouth.  Simon sat back in his chair.

“Okay,” he said with a short laugh, “I’m going to steal some paintings.”

Emily heard the plural, but her expression didn’t change.

“They’re not for me.  Truth is I don’t even want them.  And if everything goes according to plan, at some point, I’m gonna give them back.  So, I’m not the bad guy here.  But for right now, I need those paintings.”

Simon sipped his cognac. “They’re leverage.  I and my wife …” Simon looked at Emily expectantly.

“Marta,” Emily offered.

Simon nodded. “Marta.  Yeah.  Let me tell you about Marta.  We been together for over 60 years.  We grew up together.  Little kids.   High school sweethearts.  The whole deal.  I don’t even remember a time when she wasn’t there.  And in all those years, not a sour word.  Not once.  Hand to God.  Never.  Now, she’s been arrested here in Paris and the French are bending over so the FBI can f-f – uh – hmm ….  Long story, short: the FBI want these Paris boys to give her up so they can trade her for me.  Extortion.  That’s what it is.  And, believe me, I know about extortion.”

Simon lifted his glass and took another sip.

So, it’s her or me.  But I’m not goin’ anywhere, and I’m not going to let Marta go to prison, either.  No way.  Not gonna happen.  She put up with me all these years — jeez it’s the least, right?  So.  Anyway.  Everybody’s always talking about French culture?  Well, I’m gonna lift some of that culture, and me and the French are gonna do a deal.  They put Marta on a plane for parts unknown, and they get their culture back.  It’s that simple.  A hundred dollar misdemeanor for a couple of million in priceless art.”

Simon shrugged.

Emily thought about it.  It was too romantic, too improbable, too impossible, and she knew that some of it was dead tired and some of it was wine and a lot of it was silly schoolgirl adventure, but, at that moment, it certainly sounded as if it just might work.  She picked up her cognac to pause and gather a little reality.

“Don’t get caught,” she said, with a touch of menace, suddenly remembering why she was there.

Simon smiled and Dreyfus looked around for the waiter.

“Don’t worry.  I’ll tell you something, Emily: I’m a criminal, okay?  I admit it.  But I’m old.  Who cares?  I’m outta the business 10 years, more.  Nobody remembers me except the Fed.  ‘Cause in all those years, I never spent one day in jail.  Overnight, maybe.  But never anything more.  And that pisses them off — excuse my language.  Yeah, they got warrants, but so what?  I’m still not behind bars.  And I’ll tell you why.  ‘Cause I plan, I perfect and I don’t take risks.  I don’t take risks and I don’t get caught.  And your boy won’t either.  As long as he’s with me.  I guarantee it.  Now, forget about it and let’s get another brandy and hey, you want some more of that cheesy stuff?  That stuff’s good.”

Later, when they left the restaurant, Emily offered Simon her arm as they went back across the street.

—

Emily and Dreyfus – 3