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

 

Emily loved Paris.  She’d studied here as a girl and had returned a few years later as a woman who fell in love with the wrong man, lost her virginity to a better one and spent the rest of the sunny summer in a Gallic mood, carefree and morose.  She was finally called home (when the sidewalk cafes turned cold) by an uncompromising mother and a father who was gravely ill.  Death and responsibility followed and summers and winters and ….  These days, Paris was just a weekend or less — too short to be enjoyed properly.  So she should have been happy with two weeks or more on the Seine, but …

The long story from last night had lasted most of the night, and they’d been busy all morning.  So waiting at the airport, they were both suddenly very tired – content to spend the rest of the trip silently contemplating the middle distance.  Dreyfus trying to figure out how Emily had talked him into letting her tag along and Emily smoldering, furious with Simon DeMonta, who she blamed for this insanity.  She’d heard a lot of the why of this ridiculous adventure but none of the how— and it worried her.

There was a car waiting at Charles De Gaulle, which oddly enough, already had a matching suitcase in the trunk.  Less than four hours out of London, they were checking into a boutique hotel just off Boulevard du Montparnasse.

The driver brought the luggage into the lobby and handed Dreyfus a telephone. “Pour vous, monsieur.”

Dreyfus nodded, put the phone in his jacket pocket and turned to reception, but before he could speak:

“Lady Weldon.  Excusez-moi!  We had no idea.” It was a voice from far behind the counter.

A man stepped forward and shuffled the other staff away with his fingers.

“Your usual suite, of course.”  He looked down at the arranged papers, trying to decipher them as quickly as possible.  “Perhaps a drink while we make the arrangements.”

“That would be fine, Lucien.  It’s nice to see you again.”

“And you, Madame.”

Emily took their passports out of Sinclair’s hand, gave him a you’re-in-my-town-now look and placed them on the counter.  She reached under his arm and directed him across the lobby.

“So that’s why you wanted to stay here.”

But before Emily could answer:

“Please, one minute.”  It was Lucien.  “Monsieur Sinclair, your friend Monsieur DeMonta has already arrived.  He is waiting across the street at Chez Marcel.  Just there.”

There was a perceptible pause.

“Shall I move him to the sixth floor?”

Emily turned her head only slightly. “No, he’s just fine where he is.”

She stepped Dreyfus towards the door.

“Could you send someone when the rooms are ready?”

“Certainly.”

Chez Marcel was far enough away from the tourist routes that it was old- style Paris – mostly empty at that time of day.  There were a couple of late shoppers, a book reader, a satcheled student, tapping a phone, and what looked like a bony bag of clothes thrown on a chair against the wall.

Emily hesitated. “Oh, my God! That can’t be him!”

Simon was completely beyond anything Emily had been imagining.  She had to consciously close her mouth.  This man wasn’t just old — he was crisp, practically brittle.  He looked like a forgotten banquet of dead flowers — afraid of the wind that could blow him into a thousand pieces.  There was no possibility he was going to steal a Picasso.  It looked as if he couldn’t even lift one.  What the hell had Sinclair got himself into?

Dreyfus maneuvered through the tables and Emily, horrified, followed.  A couple of steps later:

“Hey, good to see you.  Emily,” Dreyfus put his hand on the back of Emily’s waist and moved her forward, “this is Simon.  Simon, this is Emily.”

Simon smiled and his face brightened.

“At least he’s not dead!”  Emily thought.

But as he got up from the chair, he leaned heavily on a cane.

“We’re so screwed!”

But all Emily heard herself say was, “Pleased to meet you.  Have you been waiting long?”

—

Emily And Dreyfus – 4