The policeman’s answer was delivered with actions, not words. He nodded to his colleagues. They threw Rafa to the floor, hauling his long arms behind him and snapping handcuffs onto his wrists. It was a violent act, leaving Rafa stunned, bleeding from his mouth.
“Stop this,” Delphine cried out. “What are you doing to my husband?”
Rafa struggled to free himself, shouting for an explanation. A baton landed on his ribs. A boot dug into his neck. From the corner of his eye, he observed the officers running upstairs to the executive floor. Delphine stood alone, hand covering her mouth. He met her gaze and read only despair and resignation. This was no accident, no case of police malfeasance or random error. The police were here because of him.
“What do you want?” Rafa managed, his mouth filled with blood. “Tell me.”
Rough hands dragged him to his feet. “You are under arrest,” said the tall policeman, spitting the words into his face. “You will come with us.”
“What for? I’ve done nothing.”
“Rafa, please tell them.” Delphine’s eyes pleaded with him. “Whatever it is they want, give it to them.”
“It’s nothing, Dee. I swear it.”
Delphine grasped the policeman’s tunic. “What has he done? Please.”
The policeman shoved her violently. She fell to the ground. The other policemen returned to the lobby, one carrying Rafa’s laptop, another hoisting a box of documents. In seconds, they were outside, loading their vehicles.
Rafa followed, propelled by a stiff arm to his back. At the car, he put up a fight, refusing to lower his head and climb in. The leader hit him in the solar plexus and, when Rafa doubled over, took hold of his hair and folded him into the back seat. The last words Rafael de Bourbon heard as the door slammed and the cars raced out of the forecourt were his wife’s.
“Rafa…what did you do?”
Chapter 3
London
How is she?” D’Artagnan Moore stood at the entry to his office on the eleventh floor of the Lloyd’s of London building.
“Not good,” said Simon, brushing past.
“Any improvement?”
“We’ll know more in forty-eight hours.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Whose is it? I should never have brought her with me.”
Three days had passed since the accident. Simon’s shoulder ached from a partial dislocation and he’d gotten a nasty bump on the head. Otherwise he was fine. He’d handed the painting over to a representative of Lloyd’s in France. He’d come to get paid.
“Sit down,” said Moore. “Have a drink. I might have a bottle of that Tennessee cough syrup you seem to favor.”
“You purchased a bottle of Jack Daniel’s?” D’Artagnan Moore would sooner drink an ice-cold German Gewürztraminer than American sour mash whiskey.
D’Art hesitated. “Not me personally. I asked my assistant. Can’t be seen to be lowering my standards.”
“God forbid.”
“Testy, aren’t we?”
“Watch it, D’Art. Today isn’t the day.”
D’Artagnan Moore walked to his drinks trolley and opened the bottle of Jack. He poured two fingers into a glass, saw Simon motioning for more, and added another two. For himself, he chose a crystal decanter, single-malt scotch with an unpronounceable name, and matched Simon drop for drop.
“Health,” said Moore, raising his glass. He was a big man by any standard, six feet five inches tall, three hundred pounds, a huntsman’s untamed beard touching his chest, dressed as always in a three-piece suit of Harris Tweed, a calico pocket square waving from his jacket.
“Health,” said Simon, finishing half the glass. He dropped into a quilted club chair, wincing only a little. “Well…does the Monet check out?”
“Ninety-nine percent. Looks very bonny.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means we were right to recognize the work as the Rouen façade stolen from Amsterdam’s Rijksmuseum. The first experts are inclined to confirm that it is the original.”
“How many experts are there?”
“The museum received fifteen million dollars as compensation when it was stolen. Before they hand back the money, they want to be damned sure it’s the real thing. The answer to your question, I imagine, is ‘as many as necessary.’”
“Any word in the press?”
Moore shook his head. “A bit difficult to report the theft of a theft.”
“And my fee?” asked Simon.
Moore cleared his throat. He might as well have sent up a distress flare. “Pending.”
“Pending?”
“Forensics in progress. Testing the paint and canvas to confirm that they date from the era and match the artist’s other works.”
“If you sent me to steal a forgery, I will wrap my hands around your neck and strangle every last drop of life from your body.”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” said Moore. “Since when is there anything like