Chapter 1

Two Brothers

May 25-June 6: Nice, Genoa, Paris

I borrowed my girlfriend Gabrielle’s BMW and left for Genoa mid-morning. We had attended an opening the night before and then stayed at Gabrielle’s apartment in town. I crept slowly along the Promenade des Anglais and up narrow, sun dappled streets. Traffic was light passing through the industrial outskirts of the city. Soon I merged onto the A10, leaving modern civilization behind, rolling back and forth between tranquil sea and low, green hills inland. I had made the trip up and down the coast several times but I was not yet immune to its charms. The Ligurian seaboard, unlike the melodramatic, breathtaking coast of my home in northern California, was warm, inviting, and restful to the eye. The drive from Nice to Genoa would take about two and half hours. I had plenty of time to admire the scenery. The American Bach Soloists’ recording of the Mass in B Minor came on the radio and I settled back in my seat as the first chord exploded like an epiphany of golden light from the speakers.

I was on my way to meet Signor Petru Ortoli about a job. I had very little information about Ortoli aside from his address in Genoa and his name. He was an associate of Santu Cartini, Gabrielle’s father. I assumed he was, like Signor Cartini, wealthy and connected to an old Corsican family. He was probably also connected to organized crime. Close association with mobsters was not something I would have chosen but I had fallen into that world while completing my previous job and had stayed there because of Gabrielle.

Driving that coast I thought about the escapade that had led me to the south of France and introduced me to Gabrielle. I thought about Benoit Legere, the psychopathic lawyer who had come very close to killing me before he took a fatal fall from a cliff in the hills outside of Nice. I thought about Patrice Antonetti and his chateau in the country with a basement crypt full of stolen art. It seemed like years ago but it was only six months since I had stood in Antonetti’s secret gallery and realized the painting I had come to recover was a fake. He had been double crossed by his associates back in San Francisco. I got the real painting back eventually. I didn’t know whether or not he ever figured out his copy was a forgery. We hadn’t heard a word from him. I had seen him a couple of times at events I attended with Gabrielle but he stayed away, across the room, and seemed not to even notice us. He knew Gabrielle’s father would not let him live if anything happened to her. He probably assumed I was under similar protection.

I thought, too, about the months I had spent with Gabrielle—hiking in the countryside, reading by the fire in the evenings, drinking a little too much, eating a bit too well. I felt dissipated and unsure of my own identity. I had been away from my home for too long. I yearned for some kind of activity. I needed to be planning and executing a job. Gabrielle’s father had asked me weeks before to meet with Signor Ortoli. I hadn’t realized I was ready until, two nights before, Gabrielle had looked up from her book and said simply, “You have something you want to talk about.” A statement, not a question. She was good at reading my face. That was when I put a name to the restlessness that had been building in me and decided to meet with Ortoli and consider the details of the job he was proposing. My relationship with Gabrielle was at an impasse. This job was a stopgap.

Two hours later, still mulling over recent history and projecting into the future, I finally reached the bridge spanning the Torrente Polcevera and, crossing over, saw the industrial flatlands of the port city down below. Above, climbing the hills to the north and east were the dense neighborhoods of Genoa. My destination lay outside the city to the east. I let my phone navigate and ended up circling around north of the city before coming back down toward the sea. I left the freeway there and piloted through residential streets where the homes grew larger and the lots more generous until finally, at a dead end, the pleasant robot voice announced we had arrived. A guard house crouched at the bottom of a long driveway that wound away up a wooded hillside. I stopped and lowered the window. The guard wore a blue blazer that bulged in conspicuous places. He nodded to me.

“Justin Vincent,” I said. “Sono qui per visitare il Signor Ortoli.” My Italian was not great but it was getting better. The guard nodded again and spoke quietly into his lapel.

“Continua,” he said, gesturing toward a grove of trees, his face as blank and unreadable as an Easter Island Moai. I followed his taciturn advice and continued up the driveway, passing through the trees, dappled sunlight on the windshield, then emerging into a circular drive at the front of a typical, two-story roman villa of the luxurious sort. The lower part was stone, the upper part red brick. Green shutters stood at the ready to close off the arched windows. A fountain surrounded by a low stone wall that looked like it could be as old as the hillside itself stood in the center of the drive, water dancing in the sunlight. I parked the car, stepped out into the warm air, and surveyed the grounds for a moment. When I turned back to the house I was surprised to see a man standing just outside the main entrance. White haired and small, dressed in linen trousers rolled at the ankle and an untucked shirt, he seemed to have materialized out of thin air.

“Mr. Vincent,” he called, “please come in.”

“Signor Ortoli.” I strode up to the entry, holding out my hand. “Pleased to meet you.” He took my hand in a strong grip and gestured me into the entry hall.

“Tè freddo?” he asked. “Limonata?”

“Thanks,” I replied. “Iced tea would be fine.” We passed through a barrel vaulted entry hall with a floor of exquisite tile—a mosaic with a white ground and black arabesques and garlands arrayed in an almost mandala-like pattern. Signor Ortoli gestured to a uniformed woman standing nearby, speaking to her in rapid Corsican. She hurried off at once. A light hand on my arm, he continued leading me through a reception room and out to the central courtyard of the house.

“Thank you for coming,” he said as he led me onto the covered porch that wrapped around the courtyard. “Please sit.”

Doric columns supported the porch roof. Between the columns, arched openings revealed geometric arrays of plantings, white gravel paths, pools and fountains. Groupings of elegantly curved wicker furniture were spaced along a gallery floored in blue and white tile. I seated myself in an aerodynamic lounge chair and he sat across from me.

“You have a beautiful home, Signor Ortoli,” I said.

He waved a hand in the air as if to dismiss the compliment. “It’s fine,” he answered. “My ancestral home is where my heart is, Mr. Vincent. But sometimes I must come to the mainland for business. I have several real estate ventures near Genova that require oversight.” He stopped, staring blankly into the bright courtyard. “My ancestral home,” he continued with a sigh, “is not so pleasant now though, not so restful. Something is missing.” He turned to me with a steady gaze. “I don’t like small talk and you don’t strike me as a man who does either. Signor Cartini recommended you. He says you are capable of recovering missing things with discretion.”

“Maybe,” I answered, sizing him up. He reminded me of Gabrielle’s father—not a large or physically powerful man but a man used to power, a man fully engaged in the moment, not missing anything that could be useful, his brain cataloging and interpreting with intense focus. “I would need to know the details,” I continued, letting the statement hang between us as an invitation. The woman we had seen earlier arrived with a tray and set out glasses of iced tea, lemon, sugar. She smiled at me as she handed me the glass and I smiled back, thanking her.

“The details,” Signor Ortoli said with a deep breath after the woman departed. “I have a brother, Carlu, two years younger than me. When our father passed away he left my brother a sizable sum but he left me the family business. Partly, he showed this by leaving me the family home and everything in it, including a painting. A very old painting of our great grandfather. It is small,” he held out his hands, indicating a painting maybe fourteen inches by ten. “It was painted by Filippo Agricola. My brother has coveted that painting for many years. He always felt he was the better businessman, that our father should have left the family business to him. We had a falling out over this and we have barely spoken for twenty years. The painting is a symbol for him. I know that it was he who stole it. No one else would bother or dare. The painting itself is valuable but not something a collector would want. Only a museum would want to buy it but no museum would touch it, knowing that it is stolen and belongs to me. Its value to me, though, is inestimable. It has to be my brother who stole it. I would like you to get it back, Mr. Vincent. The painting belongs above the mantel in my house, not with my brother. It must go to my son, not his. It must be recovered quietly. I would not use force against my own brother. I need an expert thief.”

I leaned back in my chair, sipping my tea. The story interested me. I found myself liking Signor Ortoli. We had barely met but I could tell by his lined face and the way he spoke that he was a man who adhered to principles. They might not all be principles I would agree with but at least he would be predictable. I imagined I would hear a very different version of this story were I to speak with his brother. Signor Ortoli clearly believed strongly in his claim. His brother probably did too. It would take years of Freudian psychoanalysis to tease out the knot of contention between them. If Ortoli was telling the truth, though, the painting did legally belong to him. Also, I felt the restlessness rising in me. My brain was already starting to work on the problem, before I even knew the details. I had to admit to myself that I was willing to consider it.

“And where does your brother live Signor Ortoli?” I asked. “Where do you believe he is keeping the painting?”

****

I arrived in Paris by train two days later, rolling through the thirteenth arrondissement past old, mansard-roofed apartment blocks with bedding airing on the balconies and into Gare D’Austerlitz. The day was unseasonably warm and the city had that feeling cities get on the first warm day of spring. Men sported shirt sleeves. Women wore light dresses. Children skipped and laughed. Signor Ortoli’s brother had a house in the fourteenth arrondissement on Rue Cassini near the Cimetière Montparnasse. I had managed to book an Airbnb apartment on the same block, opposite side of the street. It was a tiny apartment but it would do. I had it for two weeks although I hoped I wouldn’t need it for that long. I had been planning on riding the metro from Gare d’Austerlitz but it was less than two miles to my Airbnb and the weather was so nice I decided to walk.

I strolled along Boulevard Saint-Marcel, enjoying the warmth, the trees sprouting new green leaves, the clinking of glassware in the cafés. Even the smell of Paris—whiffs of sewer gas, strong tobacco smoke, coffee, diesel, damp basement exhalations from ancient buildings—seemed pleasant in the haze of spring. Paris was one of my favorite cities and it had been too long since I had spent time just walking its broad boulevards and narrow alleys.

I stopped a couple of times along the way for the kinds of Parisian treats that just weren’t the same anywhere else—a café crème, a macaron—but did eventually turn onto Rue Cassini and find the building where I would be staying. Four stories high with flattened columns and stacked ornamentation placing it clearly in the deco period, the apartment block blended seamlessly into the character of the neighborhood. A rack of Velib public bikes stood just outside the front door. The owner had given me a code for the outer door and I was to check in with the concierge for the keys to the apartment itself. Inside, I found a tiny foyer with a gray marble floor. The concierge’s office adjoined the lobby, the solid oak door ajar. I knocked and poked my head in. A small woman, maybe five feet tall, with short hair going gray and a broom clutched tightly in one hand came to the door. Her French was heavily accented with what I took to be her native Portuguese and mine was probably just as difficult for her to understand. I had been practicing French with Gabrielle for months but I was still only an intermediate speaker. Eventually, after much back and forth, we established that I was the guest of Monsieur Thibault and it was okay to give me the keys.

I rode a clattery elevator up to the third floor, found the right number, and managed to make the key work in the lock. Inside at last, I dropped my heavy rucksack in the entry hall and gave myself a tour of the apartment. An aroma of floor soap and tobacco permeated the place, swirling ahead of me as I explored a miniature kitchen off the entry hall, hardly larger than a closet, a living room maybe twelve feet by ten, a bedroom of similar size completely taken up by an Ikea closet unit that stretched the full length of one wall and a queen sized bed, and a bathroom even smaller than the kitchen. Standing at the window in the living room, I knew that I had chosen well. Carlu Ortoli’s house lay nearly directly across the street. I would be able to stake it out easily. First, though, I would need provisions. There was a grocery store a couple of blocks away. I emptied my backpack and set off.

****

I spent the next two days watching Ortoli’s house, eating baguettes and drinking coffee while I observed the routines of the security guards and the neighborhood, making notes. Three times I saw Ortoli leave and three times return, picked up or dropped off by a driver in a shiny black Mercedes SUV. He wore dark sunglasses but he was unmistakably the man of the house. He looked and moved like a slightly younger version of his brother. Twice a woman with high cheekbones and straight, dark hair accompanied him. She looked thirty years younger but also somehow protective and maternal.

The house itself was a typical four-story early Belle Époque edifice with elements of Byzantine, Moorish, and gothic architecture. The windows were arched and each had its own wrought iron balcony. A portico of Corinthian columns surrounded the front door and a jutting cupola broke the slate tiled roof line.

Ortoli’s security seemed very good. They were professional and well trained. During the day, there was always a man outside the house and one somewhere inside. At night, just one guard plus probably remotely monitored systems. They didn’t lose focus, slip away for a smoke, get caught up in conversations with people from the neighborhood. As I had suspected, they were not native French speakers. By using a shotgun mic I was able to determine that they spoke Corsican when conversing with Ortoli. If my plan ended up requiring me to interact with them, I would hopefully be able to speak limited French without giving away my non-native speaker status. I needed to figure out some sort of convincing ruse to get inside and case the house. I had to see the interior before I would be able to plan my next step but it wasn’t going to be easy. It was time to call on my partner Ashna.

It felt weird to call Ashna my partner but after I recovered my friend Valerie’s stolen painting—with a fair amount of help from Ashna—she had convinced me she wanted to be a full accomplice the next time I took on a job. I normally liked to plan, work out details, and execute on my own. I had always been a loner when it came to my work—be it art, or my past career as a cat burglar. There weren’t many people I could see myself partnering with but something about Ashna made me think it might work out. Longtime friend, highly skilled programmer and hacker, intense and no-nonsense personality—she was a huge asset and definitely worth a fifty-fifty split.

The morning of my third day I made coffee and sat down in the chair I had dragged over to the open window overlooking the street. It was sunny and warm and the window was angled enough toward the east to admit a shaft of sunlight. The owner of the apartment had a window box full of nasturtiums in full bloom. I inhaled the sweet aroma of the flowers and sipped my coffee while composing a quick text to Ashna.

—Need some help. Sending details via email.—

It was late evening in San Francisco but she responded within a few minutes.

—Cool. Awaiting your communiqué.—

I opened my laptop and quickly typed up the details including a brief outline of the job, Ortoli’s Paris address, and my observations. I encrypted the document with a ridiculously strong password Ashna had forced me to commit to memory, and then sent it off to her from my Protonmail account. After I sent it I deleted the unencrypted version and spent a few minutes writing an email to an old friend who lived in Paris, letting him know I was around for a few days. Soon, my phone buzzed with an incoming text message:

—Doing some digging. Will reply soon.—

I went for a walk around the neighborhood and stopped at the local brasserie for breakfast. The setup had me a little perplexed. Normally I liked to enter buildings only when they were empty. Lately, I had found myself needing to break that rule more often than I liked. A new set of skills and a reconsideration of strategy was needed. On my way back in, I ran into the concierge in the lobby mopping the floor. I nodded hello to her and was about to continue upstairs but, on a sudden instinct, decided to ask her about Ortoli. Apartment building concierges in Paris were famous for knowing everyone’s business. They were discreet but watchful and knowledgeable, not just of their own buildings but of the neighborhood.

“Pardon, Madame. The house across the street,” I said in my halting French, gesturing toward it. “Does a celebrity live there? Someone famous? There are always security men outside.”

She stopped mopping and leaned on the handle, happy to talk. “A rich man,” she responded, wiping her forehead with a handkerchief from the pocket of her gray smock. “Some kind of gangster. Corsican.” The word sounded like a truly vile insult the way she said it. She looked back and forth as if checking to see that no one else was nearby to hear, then held her hand up to her nose, twisting it back and forth in a very French gesture I recognized to mean intoxicated. “Always drunk,” she said. “Every night passing out. I see the guards and his woman carry him out of the car sometimes. Other times, I see him stumble home from the bar.”

I shook my head, trying to feign a scandalized look. “Oh well,” I responded. “Many people drink too much. It’s a sad affliction.”

“Also, the smuggling. Things go out but I don’t see them go in. Trucks in the night. Very bad. From where do they come?"

“I can’t say Madame. It sounds very disturbing," I replied, shrugging. She shrugged too, shaking her head sadly, and went back to sweeping. This was interesting intelligence. If things came out of the house that were not seen going in, it could mean there was a secret entrance.

Upstairs, I checked my email and saw a response from Ashna waiting. I clicked to open it, entered the password to decrypt the file, and began reading.

This Ortoli character uses France Telecom for internet access. I got an associate who speaks native French to call up and report internet access down at the address. He managed to get the tech on the line to give him the static IP address for the router. Social engineering FTW! Anyway, with the IP address, I was able to compromise the router and get onto the local network. His house is a hacker dream come true—all the latest IOT gadgets. He’s got HVAC, appliances, TVs, lights, and security system all online. The HVAC would be the easiest to hack. There’s an embedded control system with a default password. Let me know what you need hacked and I’ll get on it.

I pondered for a minute. HVAC might be a good way to get in. An unusual heat wave was blanketing the city. If the AC went down in the house I could pose as a repairman to gain entry. I would need to rent a van and get some gear. I turned back to my laptop and composed a reply to Ashna.

You’re awesome. Please work on the HVAC. I’ll need to you to shut down the AC at a specific date/time. I’ll follow up with details.

****

The next day was even warmer. I waited around the corner in my rented van, a bead of sweat running down my forehead. I’d worked up a logo in Photoshop for my imaginary AC repair service and had it printed as a magnetic car decal. It was stuck to the side of the van. I also had it stenciled on the back of my new work shirt. I had hand cut the stencil out of thick cardboard and spray painted it on the shirt but it looked fairly convincing. In the back of the van was a toolbox full of tools an AC repairman would carry. I had purchased them at a couple of different pawn shops in the outer arrondissements so they wouldn’t look suspiciously new if inspected.

I checked the time. Ashna would be turning off the AC at any moment. I would wait ten minutes then drive around the corner and park in front of Ortoli’s house.

Exactly ten minutes later I pulled up and turned off the engine. The guard barred my way as soon as I stepped out of the van, looming over me, obviously sweltering in his dark blazer and black button up. A drop of sweat meandered down through his close-cropped black hair and slid onto his acne scarred cheek, picking up speed. I’d used Google translate to figure out what I would say and had been practicing it since the evening before, trying to improve my accent.

“Central maintenance sent me out. They got a system down alert for the AC at this address.”

He held up a hand and talked into his lapel mic, holding the other hand to his ear piece. After a short conversation with the person on the other end, he turned back to me.

“They’re checking,” he said and stood impassively for a minute. I tried to look bored. This part was the weakest link in my plan. There was no central maintenance office monitoring the AC in the house. I was counting on them not to know that bit of information. People tend to be fatalistic about technology and just accept that everything is constantly monitored—their cars, their TVs, even their AC units. Finally someone’s voice spoke in his ear and he nodded. “Yeah, AC’s down. My boss is coming to escort you.”

A couple of minutes later another man I recognized from my surveillance, older and less bulky but still highly capable looking, pushed the front door open and gestured to me. I picked up my toolbox and headed for the entrance but was stopped short by the door guardʼs extended arm. He squinted at me, forehead wrinkling, and held out his hand for the tool box. I set it down and opened it. He inspected the contents slowly and carefully then, satisfied, handed it back and inclined his head toward the door where the other guard still waited. I turned and entered, following the older man inside. I was glad it was warm out. The sweat patches under my arms were not entirely from the heat. These guys made me nervous.

As soon as we were inside I switched my brain to record mode and took in as much information as possible. It reminded me of a nice, business class hotel lobby. Some people’s houses and furnishings say a lot about who they are and what they value. Ortoli’s house so far said only “I hired a somewhat competent interior decorator.” I saw a security camera in the entry hall, facing the front door. I did not see any motion detectors.

“AC unit is downstairs.” The guard said, opening the door next to the elevator with a key from the set hanging on his belt. He held it open for me and I walked through. Wooden stairs led up toward the higher floors, switching back and forth. Concrete stairs led down into a gloomy, damp smelling basement. There did not seem to be any cameras in the stairwell. I descended slowly and found myself in a vaulted cellar with a dusty stone floor. It looked like spider territory. Dim lamps hung down, casting just enough light to see by but not enough to illuminate the many shadowy corners and alcoves. The guard pushed past me and led me to a back corner where a squat central AC unit sat on an elevated pad next to a gas furnace.

“This will take a little time,” I said, rounding the unit and crouching down. I found the access panel at the back and glanced over at him. He hovered, seemingly unsure whether he should stay or leave me to my work. Just then, his phone rang and he answered it. I could hear a gruff voice on the other end. The security guard answered obsequiously, speaking rapid Corsican. He glanced back at me as the barking continued, then put his hand over the phone and stage whispered ‘hurry’ before heading back up the stairs.

I popped the right bit onto my socket driver, unscrewed the panel, and pulled it off. There was nothing really for me to do. Ashna would turn the system back on when I gave her the signal. I wanted to look busy if the guard came back down though. I stood and walked around, surveying the cellar. Ten feet away from the furnace I found another set of steps leading down to a sub-basement. The concierge’s information about trucks loading out when nothing had gone in came back to me. Could the house have a secret way in and out? Intrigued, I pulled out my flashlight and hurried down. There was a heavy door at the bottom but it was unlocked and opened easily, leading into a wine cellar. I walked through, admiring the collection of neatly racked bottles. They looked like they were dusted and rotated frequently. On the opposite wall was another door, this one locked and double dead-bolted with high quality hardware. I unlocked it, curious what I would find, flashing back for a moment to Patrice Antonetti’s underground art gallery. Beyond the door, though, I found not another chamber but an ancient looking tunnel with a bare, hand hewn stone floor, leading downward into darkness. I used my phone’s flashlight mode to dispel the shadows. There seemed to be a gate of vertical steel bars farther down the tunnel. The catacombs! It had to be. The winding maze of tunnels ran under this whole section of Paris. I pulled a sharpie out of a cargo pocket, quickly drew an X on the tunnel side of the door, and closed it again, locking only the knob set. It would take some work but I had a good idea how I would get into Ortoli’s house. Why he had a secret entrance to the catacombs I could only guess. Maybe for smuggling as the concierge had said. Maybe a kind of escape hatch in case the police came for him.

Back in the basement, crouched behind the AC unit, I texted Ashna, hoping my single bar of cell service would suffice. A minute later the unit chugged to life. I replaced the cover, packed my tools, and headed for the exit, sending a quick thank you to Ashna on my way out.

****

Later, the van returned to the rental company, I sat in my rented apartment and began researching the catacombs. There were official tours but they covered only a small percentage of the tunnels. Vast sections were closed off and forbidden to civilians. Artists and urban adventurers, however, had taken to breaking in, exploring, and throwing parties and events down in the dark chambers and galleries below Paris. I found an article detailing how a shadowy group had started an illegal movie house in a giant, previously unmapped cavern they came across. It was like the old rave scene in Manchester except instead of abandoned warehouses they were going literally underground. Plenty of photos and videos could be found online, posted by illicit explorers. If the door in Ortoli’s basement really connected to the catacombs it should not be too difficult to find from the other side. I would need someone to guide me though. I had a friend in Paris, an old comrade from my art school days. His name was Sebastian and he was just the kind of guy who would know someone, or at least know of someone, who could get me into the catacombs and show me around.

****

Two days later I crouched between two parked cars on a quiet street a few blocks from Ortoli’s house. I leaned against the bumper of the van behind me and rubbed my hands together. It was late, the street nearly deserted. Sebastian crouched next to me and, next to him, his friend Jabez, a documentary filmmaker working on a piece about the catacombs and the secretive groups who explored and even sometimes inhabited the tunnels. A big, meaty guy and something of a dandy, Jabez wore a midnight blue velvet suit, riding boots, and a deerstalker hat. Sebastian, as skinny, tall, and dark as I remembered him, hummed tunelessly, watching the road. It had been years but he didn’t seem to have changed. Still quiet and sardonic and happy to help a friend. I had just met Jabez but I liked him already. He proved more than willing to show us a way into the underground and help us explore. A true obsessive, he knew everything about the catacombs. We had met at a nearby brasserie and he had been talking our ears off ever since, explaining the history and the politics.

Jabez checked his watch, poked his head out to look for cars, and nodded to us. “Let’s go,” he said, standing.

We walked to the middle of the road and he carefully lifted a manhole cover with a crowbar, holding it up and motioning for us to enter. Inside, a circular shaft led straight down with ladder rungs set into the wall. Sebastian went first, then me. I looked up and saw Jabez slowly lowering the manhole with one hand while holding on to a rung with the other—an impressive feat of strength. The darkness closed in as soon as the cover was down. We all had headlamps provided by Jabez. I flicked mine on and so did the others. At the bottom of the ladder was a tunnel of fitted stone just tall enough for me. Jabez and Sebastian, both over six feet, stooped.

“This is a sewer access tunnel,” Jabez said. “Just up here we will find a door to one of the catacomb passages. I’ve entered this way a couple of times. Near here there is a good section of tunnels and rooms.” He started off and we followed. We walked about thirty feet and stopped in front of an alcove with an inset door. “Merde!” he spat. “They’ve locked it up.”

I looked over his shoulder and smiled. It was a lock I was familiar with—an Abus 82 series padlock securing a hasp that held the door closed. The Abus 82s were easy to pick but even easier to open with just a sharp steel awl. The actuator was brass so a harder metal could bite in and move it, releasing the spring.

“Give me a second,” I said and crouched in front of the door, already digging in my backpack for my tool kit. I pretended to struggle with it for a while and then quickly popped it. “Got it,” I said, standing and pushing the door open.

“Where did you learn to pick locks?” Sebastian asked, raising an eyebrow, as we passed through into an older looking tunnel hewed out of solid stone.

“Just a hobby,” I answered. “I don’t get a chance to use it very often.”

I pulled the door shut behind us and Jabez led the way, filming with a small digital camera. It felt strangely peaceful underground—quiet and enclosed. I had told Jabez and Sebastian that I was looking for a particular spot underneath the Cimetiere Montparnasse, an alcove with a sculptural element I had heard about from another artist. I had chosen that direction because it should take us close to Ortoli’s house and the passageway leading to his cellar. There were maps of the catacombs online. They were incomplete and often out of scale but I was fairly sure that by entering where we had and heading toward the cemetery we should be on the right path.

We walked for some time. The air had a still, damp feel and we occasionally passed through inch deep puddles of standing water. Sebastian had warned me and I was prepared with waterproof boots. The tunnel opened wider in places, revealing dim recesses and rough columns behind which lurked shadowy alcoves stacked high with human bones—skulls and femurs carefully piled up, forming a retaining wall that held back the jumble of other, smaller bones. I was keeping track of the distance as well as I could. I felt we should be nearing Ortoli’s house. We passed an alcove, a collapsed tunnel, then finally a passage opened to the left and I stopped, gazing up into the murky gloom.

“Let me check this out,” I said to the others and ducked in. The shaft rose at a slow grade for about thirty feet and stopped at a gate of steel bars. I shined my headlamp through the bars. Twenty feet further on I saw a door. It was marked with an X. My X.

“What did you find?” Sebastian asked, coming up behind me.

“Just a gate. Heavy duty and well locked. Door further up the tunnel.”

“Interesting. Maybe a private entrance. From a cellar in someone’s house or business. It’s not uncommon.”

“Yeah. I wonder where it leads to? Anyway, not where we’re headed tonight. Let’s go back and catch up with Jabez.”

****

Two days later again, I was back on the same street, waiting between parked cars. It was just after eleven PM. Alone this time, I waited for an opening. I had my brought my own crowbar.

Ashna had scored again by finding the architectural drawings created when Ortoli remodeled the house in 2008, submitted as part of the permitting process. I knew now that the master suite was on the third floor and the fourth floor was Ortoli’s office and library. The second floor was guest rooms—probably where the security guards had their monitoring station. I was sure Ortoli would not have the painting there. It had to be either in the master bedroom or the library. My guess was the library. He would want to show it off to the close friends who he brought upstairs. Very few people would ever see it in the master bedroom.

I knew from my surveillance that Ortoli and his girlfriend went out often and stayed out late. I kept watch for two nights. On the second night, I saw the driver pull up and watched the couple slide into the back seat, accompanied by a bodyguard who rode shotgun. They were dressed for a night on the town, Ortoli in a slick blue suit and the lady in a pale green shantung fit and flare dress I found fetching. That left the house protected only by the night security guard who stayed in the entry hall or stood outside the door if he wanted some air. As soon as I saw the car pull away from the curb, I stood and picked up my backpack. On my way down the stairs I texted Ashna the code phrase we had agreed on:

—How’s work?—

My phone buzzed with her response as I exited the front door of the building:

—Stop texting me, asshole.—

She had a weird sense of humor but I knew she was ready. Our plan was for Ashna to cut the internet connection to the house by shutting down the router at my signal. This would take down the security camera video stream to the remote office. The security company would probably call the guard to have him check the router. He would call France Telecom and be on hold with them for an hour while I was making my getaway back through the catacombs with the painting.

I went through the plan in my head one more time as I pried up the manhole, slipped inside, picked the padlock again, and made my way through the tunnels underground. Down there in the silent darkness by myself, I felt a tingling of fear raising the hairs on the back of my neck. I hadn’t expected to feel the oppressive atmosphere so strongly but I had been insulated from it before by the presence of Sebastian and Jabez. Now as I strode along, the shadows seemed to press in, like dark wings folding over me. My eyes played tricks, seeing fluttering shapes and darting forms just out of my field of vision. I walked faster and soon found myself at the gate, out of breath.

The lock was a good one. I didn’t want to waste time trying to pick it so I took off my heavy backpack and dug in it for the cordless drill, hammer, bits, and hole punch I had purchased the day before. The drill made quick work of the lock. I abandoned the tools on the floor and moved on to the door with my now much lighter backpack. I prayed that the bolt locks were still open as I had left them. If so, I only needed to get through the trivial knob set lock. It took me several minutes with the pick and the tension wrench but finally I felt the lock turn. I pushed and the door opened. The unlocked deadbolts had not been noticed.

I crept into the sub-cellar and closed the door behind me. On my way through, a bottle of wine caught my eye. It was a 1964 Bordeaux from Saint Emilion. I shrugged and grabbed it. I had room in my pack. Old habits die hard, as they say.

Quickly and as silently as possible, I ascended to the cellar and made my way across to the stairs leading up into the house. Now came the tricky part. I wanted to be on the fourth floor before I signaled Ashna in order to give myself as much time as possible. I would have to climb the stairs and pass by the entry hall. I removed my boots which were crusted with tan, silty mud from the catacombs, replaced them with a pair of soft soled sneakers from my backpack, took a deep breath, and started climbing the stairs, leaving the boots behind.

Ascending to the first floor landing I saw that the door to the entry hall was open a crack. I could see the guard seated in a straight backed chair facing the door. He was playing a game on his phone, tipping his body back and forth as he raced some imaginary car or spaceship through virtual obstacles. I tiptoed past the door and continued up, placing my feet at the edges of the stair risers to reduce the inevitable creaking of the old wood. At the top of the stairs I paused for several deep breaths, then texted Ashna.

—We should go out for a drink when I get back.—

Her reply came back quickly:

—Stop stalking me, idiot.—

That meant the internet was down. I turned the nineteenth-century doorknob and pushed. It was dark on the fourth floor but enough light filtered in from the street to see that I was in a short hall between two rooms. To the left, a luxurious office space with a large desk, old oak filing cabinets, shelves, big, modern paintings on the walls, and a grand piano near the back by the windows. Directly ahead through an open door, a bathroom. To my right, the library with floor to ceiling bookshelves, a fireplace with a stone mantel lined with small sculptural objects, big squishy chairs arranged in a seating group in the middle of the room, and velvet curtains pulled back from the arched windows. I hurried through the library, breathing in the smell of leather bound books and oiled wood. There were several sections of bare wall between inset bookshelves where paintings were hung. None of them were the one I was looking for. They were not bad though. The interior decorator had a good eye for composition. I couldn’t tell much about the color in the dim light. It struck me suddenly that the office would be where he kept the painting. The brief psychological profile Petru Ortoli had provided meant younger brother Carlu would want to look at the painting when sitting at his desk, bitterly conducting his business that was not the family business.

I continued into the other room and almost jumped out of my skin when something moved in the darkness, jumping down from the desk to the floor with a soft thud. I stood absolutely still while the feline shaped shadow prowled toward me. When it was two feet away, I crouched down and held out a hand. It was a Bengal, the most beautiful of house cats. With an insouciant meow, it sniffed my fingers and turned away, heading to the library.

I turned, scanning the room, and saw it—mounted on the wall opposite the desk. It had to be Petru Ortoli’s painting. Stealthily, I crossed an expanse of Persian rug and inspected it with my flashlight. It was not bolted to the wall. I lifted it carefully, shining the light behind—no alarm I could see. With a soft cloth from my backpack laid out on the desk, I removed the painting from the wall, wrapped it carefully, then slid the bundle into my pack.

Back at the door I stopped, listening. A voice from below spoke loudly—a one sided conversation it seemed, probably a phone call. It was the guard. He was in the stairwell. I couldn’t make out the words. Then I heard something that sounded like ‘fouille la maison’. Search the house! They must suspect an intruder. I crept softly back into the library. The casement windows at the back of the house overlooking the yard opened out and were big enough for me to squeeze through. I pushed one open and looked down. Ortoli’s yard backed onto the Paris Observatory. There was a ten foot wall but I saw a place where a raised flower bed would give me a leg up. When I knew I would be breaking into a multi-story building, I always carried a length of six millimeter high strength aramid rope with me. It didn’t take up much room and often came in handy. Forcing myself to work carefully, I tied the rope to a leg of Ortoli’s grand piano. The thing had to weigh eight hundred pounds. It didn’t budge when I yanked. I had my backpack on and was out the window in a moment, rappelling down the exterior of the house. My rope was not quite long enough. I hung, feeling the warmth of the friction as I let the rope slide through my gloved hands. The drop was about six feet. I landed with a crunch on top of a shrub. Hearing a call from above I glanced up and saw the guard hanging out the window. I waved to him pleasantly and ran, jumping to the retaining wall of the flower bed, then vaulting up and over the wall.

I landed hard in gravel on the other side and took off immediately. I had scoped out the grounds of the observatory a few days before so I had some idea of where I was going. The Saint-Jacques Metro station was close. As I ran I stripped off my gloves, my hat, and my black hoodie, casting them aside. The garden behind the observatory was silent and dark. My footsteps were loud on the gravel path. Plaintive sirens sounding in the distance, I left the grounds, hurried across Rue de Faubourg Saint-Jacques, and took the empty stairs two at a time down into the Metro station. There were about ten people on the platform. I stood with them, trying my best to look like a waiter just off work and going home. I had worn a white button up shirt under my hoodie and black pants. A train mercifully pulled into the station after only two minutes of waiting. I boarded it, not knowing what direction it was headed and not caring.