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‘Carry on down,’ said Bondy. He felt for a switch on the ceiling next to the trap door and the cellar filled with light. She went down the steps and found herself in an underground bunker. What she saw took her breath away.
An artist’s studio. Table in the middle with tubes of oil paint, palette, wax paper, rags, brushes, turpentine. Sink in the corner. Three easels, each with a canvas in different stages of completion. And on the wall, six finished paintings of the early Provençal School.
Henri Seibel: landscape gardener, orchid collector, burner of leaves. And forger.
The lighting came from a row of powerful spotlights on the ceiling. Artificial, but that’s not a problem when you’re copying. On the contrary, you want the tiniest details to show up. Besides, Seibel wasn’t copying any more. He’d gone beyond the painstaking task of reproducing what hung on the wall. The subject matter now was his own – all he needed to copy was the style. And of course, most important of all, the signature.
‘Coming on nicely,’ said Bondy. Though he stayed close behind, keeping the gun trained on her, he let her walk round at leisure, and they paused at each picture like visitors at an exhibition. ‘I last came down in April. That one was hardly started. Grésy, I think he said. I wouldn’t know myself.’
‘April. When you came to warn him about burning leaves.’
‘They had every right to complain. I told him to lay off but I knew he wouldn’t. He had that look on his face.’
‘Stubborn. It got him killed in the end.’
‘A shame. No more golden eggs from that particular goose.’
‘There are others?’
‘Not as regular, maybe. This one... Three or four a year, an average of what, fifteen or twenty thousand a piece, split three ways. My share came to twelve thousand last year. Six months’ salary. Not to be sneezed at.’
‘Certainly not. Just for keeping quiet.’
‘Oh, more than that. Loyalty.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Dad.’ He indicated the originals on the wall. ‘He was the one who got them. Without him this could never have happened.’
‘Got them?’ Then she made the connection. The Zamini Gallery. ‘Magali said there were twelve.’
‘The others went to Porthos. He passed them on to Durvez to be sold.’
Porthos? It took her a moment to grasp. ‘Your father was the third Musketeer.’
‘Aramis. The youngest. They bossed him around a bit. Gino made the plans but the actual theft – Dad took all the risk. He was spotted by a passer-by, brought in for questioning, but they couldn’t make it stick. He held firm.’
‘And brought you in on it when? You must have been a toddler at the time.’
‘When he fell ill. I was just out of training school. He gave me the choice – turn them all in, ignore it, or have the same when he died.’
‘A newly trained gendarme... That must have been hard.’
‘Hard?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘I was all he had. My mother had left him, he was dying – you wouldn’t hesitate. In the meantime, Gino could pull strings, get me a post in Moudiret. I could look after him.’
‘So now you’re a Musketeer yourself. Congratulations.’
‘We came down here for the ceremony. Dad could hardly walk at that point, but he made the effort. I was sworn in as Aramis. Gino told me afterwards that Seibel wanted to cut my share to ten percent, since I had nothing to do with the heist. Gino resisted. You don’t cut bargains with loyalty.’
‘Besides, you serve a purpose. The arson, for example.’
‘A decent cut when the money comes through. It all helps.’
‘Was Eddy Ferrucci in on it?’
‘I couldn’t say. I only ever dealt with Gino.’
At that point, Sophie’s phone rang – the sound caused him to jump. Realising that something had to be done, he threw it to the floor and brought his heel down hard. The ringing stopped.
Who was it? Magali? Luc? Neither knew where she was. Bondy stood there biting his lip. ‘That must have been Pico,’ she bluffed. ‘It won’t be long before he arrives.’
‘Pico? Don’t make me laugh. He swallowed everything. The locked room mystery, Best and Ferrucci framing each other – the lot. Lapped it up. I was surprised – the way Cyril described him, I thought he was a genius. How the hell did he ever get to be General? But that’s how it works – the top brass are either morons or corrupt. Both, more likely.’
‘You’re a fine one to talk about corruption.’
‘Me? Bah! At my level it’s nothing. Have a chat with Gino – he’ll tell you. The further up you go, the worse it is.’ He grabbed a paint-stained rag. ‘Put your hands behind your back.’
‘Moron or not, he’ll soon be wondering where you are.’
‘I doubt it. He’s interviewing Isadora Waverley. He doesn’t need me, he said. I went up to the pool for a smoke. That’s when I saw the light on in here.’
‘What’s your plan? Escape?’ She winced as he pulled the rag tight round her wrists. ‘Your car’s next door. You’ll be seen before you get to it.’
‘What makes you think I need mine? Thibault’s will do fine.’
‘Which he’ll give you if you ask nicely? I doubt it.’
‘He won’t need much persuading. He knows what his father got up to. If he wants his name kept out of it, he’ll comply. And if he doesn’t – well, I’ve got a hostage, haven’t I? He’s a nice man, Thibault. He wouldn’t want to see you hurt.’
‘And then what? Hide for the rest of your life? Some future.’
‘Don’t you worry about me. Porthos has ways and means. The Musketeers look after their own.’
Is he serious? All things considered, she preferred Tikar-Bom to this fervid, gun-toting reincarnation of Aramis. ‘And your family – have you thought of them?’
‘My wife’s on board. We’re in this together. Isn’t that what marriage is about – for better or for worse? Down on your knees. Face to the wall.’
He put his gun down. A moment later, another rag came round her mouth. The taste of turpentine made her retch, and she lunged sideways, but he pressed his knee between her shoulders and snapped her head back. Then the pressure relaxed; he let go, wheeled round. Behind her, a rapid patter of footsteps – someone coming down the stairs.
It was almost a dead heat, but Bondy was half a second quicker. He grabbed his weapon and twisted her round, one arm gripping her neck, till they formed an ungainly sprawl on the floor. But she was now his shield, with the cold, hard metal of a gun against her temple. ‘Lower your weapon. Put it on the floor. Slowly.’
General Pico had no other option but to obey. ‘I may not be a genius,’ he said as he straightened up, ‘but it doesn’t take one to figure you out. The moron knew all along, Valentin. May I call you that? I can’t grace you with the title of Lieutenant anymore.’
Rising to his feet, Bondy yanked her upright. He shifted his weight, steadying himself. ‘All along?’
‘Your eagerness to convince me Best was guilty – it would take a moron indeed not to be suspicious. And the more I let you talk, the more you dug your own hole. Which now, I’m afraid, you’re into up to your neck.’ Keeping his eyes steadily on Bondy, Pico took a step forward. ‘Let her go.’
‘Stay where you are! Hands on your head! Against the wall.’
Pico took another step. ‘As Madame Kiesser said, you have no chance at all of getting away.’
The grip grew tighter round Sophie’s neck. Another step forward. The gun moved away from her head to point at Pico. ‘One more and you’re dead.’
‘Two more and I calmly take that gun out of your hand.’ As he took the first step, Pico stretched out his arm. ‘Give it to me, Lieutenant. That’s an order.’
The gun went off. Pico fell to floor, clutching his shoulder. Throwing Sophie aside, Bondy dashed to the stairs and scrambled up the steps. The upper half of him was barely out of sight when there came a mighty clang and the whole of him fell back down, accompanied by a spade.
Then a face appeared upside down, peering into the studio. ‘Shit!’ said Luc. ‘Have I killed him?’
