Lucy shot Simon an angry glance. “I thought you said four minutes.”
“You locked it, right?”
“I know how to follow instructions.”
“Stall.”
“How?”
“Talk to him.”
“And say what?”
“You’re a woman in a billionaire’s bedroom. Think of something.”
The billionaire in question was named Samson Sun, the nephew of the Indonesian minister of finance and brother-in-law of a Malaysian king. To the world, he was known as a businessman and philanthropist, and, more recently, a movie producer.
Simon had met him a month earlier at an automobile auction held at the Villa d’Este on Lake Como. It was a setup to begin with, the Monet having been spotted in a photograph in a piece on Sun appearing in the French edition of Architectural Digest. When Sun purchased a Ferrari at auction the final day (a 1966 275 GTB Berlinetta for fifteen million euros), Simon introduced himself as the man who’d overseen its restoration and offered his services should Sun have any other automobiles so in need. A conversation ensued, then later a lunch and a dinner, after which Sun insisted that Simon attend his fundraiser the following month in Cannes.
“I’m sorry,” called Lucy, cheek pressed to the door. “Mr. Sun is in the bathroom.”
“Please open up, madame. It is necessary.”
“I can’t,” she said. “I don’t have any clothes on.”
“Is Mr. Sun with you?”
Lucy looked to Simon, who nodded. The security system would show it was Sun’s key that had opened the door. “Of course he is. Who else do you think I’m with?”
“Please ask him to come to the door.”
“Oh, all right,” said Lucy, aggravated. “Don’t get in a tizzy. I’ll tell him.”
Simon returned his attention to the job at hand. One by one, he sliced the last stubborn threads and freed the canvas from the frame. “Give it to me,” he said. “Quick.”
Lucy reached into her purse and took out a plastic packet the size of a neatly folded handkerchief. Simon tore open the packet and shook loose a black polyurethane cylindrical tube. Handing it to Lucy, he rolled up the painting as tightly as possible and, with her help, slipped it inside. A drawstring drew the cylinder snug, hardly more than an inch round. Lucy removed another item from her purse—a red bow—and affixed it to the carrier.
“A present from our host,” said Simon.
The knocking recommenced, louder this time.
“Madame, please. Open the door.”
Simon heard the guard trying the lock, finding it secured from the inside. He imagined Pierrot had just learned that Samson Sun was not, in fact, in his bedroom about to enjoy intimate relations with one of his guests, but downstairs presiding over his auction.
The pounding increased in intensity.
Simon placed a call. Somewhere circling above them in the sky there was a helicopter waiting to pick them up. “We’re ready to skip town. How far out are you?”
“No go. Mechanical issues. We’re still on the ground.”
“What do you mean? We need to get out of here yesterday.”
“Nothing I can do. I’m grounded until a mechanic gets here. Good luck.”
Simon muttered an appropriate expletive and hung up. “We’re on our own.”
“I guess it’s too late to put it back,” said Lucy.
“Just a little.”
“Your move, boss.”
“Open the door,” said Simon. “Let him in.”
“And then?”
“I tell him a bedtime story and give him a kiss good night. Ready?”
Lucy nodded, but he could read the fear in her eyes. It was not the first time he’d brought her along on a job, but it was the first time he’d enlisted her active participation.
He extinguished the lights and took up position beside the door, back against the wall.
Lucy swallowed hard, then opened the door. “Yes? Can I help you?”
Pierrot the security guard looked at Lucy, then shouldered his way past her into the bedroom. Simon stepped forward and punched him in the kidney, as painful a spot as there was, then placed him in a headlock, arm drawn savagely across the neck to impede the carotid artery and cut off the flow of blood to the brain. Pierrot struggled but was no match for surprise and superior strength. His body went limp. Simon lowered him to the floor, removing his earpiece and lapel microphone.
“Pierrot, ça va?” asked a rough voice. “Qu’est-ce qui se passe?”
“Tout va bien,” answered Simon, his French that of a native.
“C’est toi, Pierrot?”
Simon frowned, dropping the microphone and earpiece onto the floor. That was a fail. “Time to move.”
Carrier in hand, he guided Lucy into the corridor, turning left and advancing down the narrow hall before descending a flight of stairs. The