Once again, he shifted his aching body within the cramped space of the electrical closet — slowly, very slowly so as not to make a sound. He listened to the last receding footsteps echoing past the medieval moat in the underground section of the former castle. The clatter of visitors’ voices gradually diminished as Monday’s closing time approached, and he was left with the sound of his own breathing and the prickly heat on the skin under his clothes. He waited, aware that one inopportune cough or that sneeze that had been taunting him for hours could derail everything. After a cautious length of time had passed and a tomblike silence settled on the old fortress, he pulled a penlight from his overalls and, careful not to allow any light to escape beneath the door, shone it on the electrical panel inches from his face.
He knew this panel like it was a musical instrument he had mastered, and probably could have carried out his task in darkness, but he took no chances given what was at stake. The route from the basement to Room 6 of the Denon Wing was as familiar as the layout of his own apartment. He also knew well that, thanks to the strike, a certain looseness prevailed among the substitute staff during the security shift changeover and that the regularity of the previous false alarms had further dulled the response effort. He made his move, disabling alarms, security monitors, and key tracking beams that acted as motion detectors, covering his route to Room 6 on the second floor. He attached the fake beard that instantly aged him and pulled on the cap that made him unrecognizable. Cane in hand, he exited the closet with great relief and made his way swiftly down the darkened hallway, slowing to a hobble as he passed flustered security officers, taking in their pitying glances at the creaky old janitor as they rushed by.
Taking the stairs past the majestic Winged Victory sculpture, which a few hours ago had been surrounded by noisy crowds of tourists posing and snapping photos they would probably never look at, he approached a cluster of guards, arguing and shining flashlights at each other. Once he had passed by, all but invisible, he unscrewed the top of his cane and pulled out a small fogging device. He smiled as the gunshot sound effects from his phone boomed in the stone stairwell, causing instant panic. Trailing fog, he moved toward Room 6 as everyone else raced to the stairwell and the source of the supposed gunfire. Once inside Room 6, behind a veil of fog, he stopped briefly and glanced at the jewel of the great Louvre Museum, the Mona Lisa. She probably hadn’t been this alone in a century, he mused. He was as familiar with her face as anyone in the art world, so without dwelling further on her mystery, he hastily removed the side of her glass case and carefully extracted the world’s most famous painting. From the shaft of his cane he unrolled her near twin, expertly installed the work, and replaced the glass case before gently rolling up da Vinci’s original and sliding it into the tube nestled inside his cane.
An hour later, the gendarmes were satisfied that nothing was missing and no damage had been done, and the only mysteries were the smell of fog, now scattered, and the sound of gunfire, now disputed. They were more annoyed at the repeated security alerts and the incompetence of the strike-breaking substitute guards. Minus his overalls, wig, and fake beard, he stepped out under the arcade of the Richelieu wing, lit a Gitane cigarette and spotted one of the waiters at the Café Marley.
“Bonsoir, Monsieur. Follow me.”
“Bonsoir, Gilles.”
“Another false alarm?”
“Oui, I’m afraid so. The fourth this week, or is it the fifth? This darned strike.”
“Your customary noisette, Monsieur?”
“Oui, merci, and a tiny Armagnac as well.”
“Bien sûr. An occasion?”
“Yes, I’m celebrating a perfect September evening, Gilles.”