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“Tom,” Jennifer called out as she ran into the room, dodging between the policemen and the display cabinets. “Are you okay? I saw the blood outside and… oh, you’re fine.”

“You sound disappointed,” Tom joked. The police backed off, shouldering their weapons and muttering under their breath.

“No it’s just that—”

“I’ve been drugged, kidnapped, and nearly electrocuted. What does a guy need to do to get a little sympathy around here?”

“Get shot,” she said with a smile, catching sight of Van Simson over Tom’s shoulder. “Is he going to be okay?” Two paramedics had arrived. They checked Van Simson’s vital signs before fixing him to a drip and hoisting him onto a stretcher.

“He’ll live. Any sign of Renwick?”

“Who?”

“It was Harry, Jen, Harry all along. He organized the Fort Knox job. He had Ranieri and Steiner killed when they stumbled upon the coins. Then, when you showed up with the last coin, he faked his own death to steal it and tried to pin everything on me.”

Jennifer shook her head, her forehead creased in confusion.

“Harry? I don’t believe it.”

“Neither did I.” Tom’s voice was sad, hurt even. “But it was him all along. He admitted the whole thing”

“I’m so sorry, Tom.” She squeezed his hand. “I know how much he meant to you.”

The familiar shape of Jean-Pierre Dumas appeared in the vault doorway. He waved at Tom from across the room before buttonholing two policemen and shouting some orders. Tom raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“I recognized Van Simson’s voice in the cistern but this time I figured we could do with some backup. Jean-Pierre arranged all this.” She waved at the small army buzzing around them. “We came in as soon as we knew for sure that Van Simson was in the building.”

“Well done.” A powerful voice cut through the noise as a tall man strode into the room and up to the platform, his hand extended, pristine white shirt nestling under an immaculate double-breasted suit. “My name’s Bob Corbett. I’m the agent in charge of this investigation. You’ve done a great job here. A great job,” he continued, shaking Tom’s hand vigorously. “I have to admit I had my doubts, given your past history. But Agent Browne has made it clear that if it weren’t for you, we’d be nowhere. The U.S. government is very grateful.”

“It was Renwick, sir,” said Jennifer urgently. “He was behind the whole thing.”

Corbett frowned in confusion.

“Harry Renwick?” The question was almost laughed, as if the possibility was so remote as to be faintly ridiculous.

Tom nodded firmly.

“He’s been playing us off against each other all along.”

Corbett’s eyes narrowed as disbelief turned to hard-faced determination. “Tell us what you can and I’ll get on it. He can’t have gotten far.” Corbett turned to face two of his men and rattled off a series of instructions in a low voice before turning back to them, a purposeful look in his eye.

“These are yours, I believe.” Tom slid the slim metallic case off the desk and handed it to Corbett.

“Thank you.” Corbett pressed the catch and looked up gratefully. “Let’s just see if we can hang onto them this time.”

CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

HÔTEL ST. MERRI, 4TH ARRONDISSEMENT, PARIS
30 July — 8:42 P.M.

The hotel windows were open and the same intoxicating blend of laughter, Vespa engines, and tinkling crockery soared up to his room as it had two nights before. He was alone now, though, Jennifer having joined Corbett at the George V or wherever it was that the FBI saw fit to house its agents.

He didn’t blame her for going back there with them. No doubt she had to be debriefed and Corbett would want to know the ins and outs of everything that had happened for the past few days. At least he trusted her to tell his side of the story and argue his case for him. He’d followed through on his part of the deal, Amsterdam aside; but he knew she wouldn’t mention that.

There was a knock on the door. He crossed the room, the wooden floor sloping toward the middle of the building where the beams had settled over the centuries, and opened it. It was Jennifer. He stood staring at her blankly for a few moments before she spoke.

“Can I come in?”

“Yes. Yes, of course, sorry.” He opened the door and she stepped inside. The bed was the only piece of furniture solid enough to sit on and she perched on the end of it. “I just wasn’t expecting you, that’s all. How’s it going?” He remained standing near the door. “I’m surprised they let you out.”

“Well, they didn’t really, but they were driving me nuts asking the same questions over and over again. So I thought I’d come and find a familiar face.”

“I’m glad you did. How’s Corbett?”

“Oh, he’s fine. Mad as hell that he was the one that arranged for me to have dinner at Renwick’s, but fine. He’s got Renwick firmly in his sights now, though. He’s even talking of a federal task force to track him down. Oh… and he wants to see you in the morning to discuss your deal and how it’s going to happen. He said that he guessed you’d rather not do it at the U.S. embassy, so he suggested a place called Les Invalides. Said you’d know it.”

Tom nodded but didn’t move from the door.

“Will you be there?”

“Sure.”

“It’s an interesting place. Well worth a visit. You should get a guidebook.”

She nodded and there was an awkward pause.

“You know, you didn’t need to come all the way over to tell me that,” Tom said. “You could have called.”

“I know, but I wanted to come.”

Tom flashed her an amused grin.

“Agent Browne, did you actually miss me?”

Her eyes dipped to the floor.

“A little, maybe.”

Tom reached down and locked the door. At the sound of the key turning, she raised her eyes to his and smiled. Tom felt his pulse quickening.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

LES INVALIDES, PARIS
31 July — 1:22 P.M.

A thick heat had settled on the city by lunchtime of the following day. Jennifer was glad to walk out of the haze of exhaust fumes, through the vaulted entrance arch, into the coolness of the Hôtel des Invalides’s vast stone courtyard. She was a little early for her meeting with Bob and Tom, but then she hated being late.

The thought of Tom brought warm memories from the long, lazy night they’d spent together. She’d surprised herself by how much she’d wanted him. How much she’d needed that release. But she was also realistic. She knew that it was unlikely to last. That he was not the sort of man to be pinned down by anyone, even though she sensed that was perhaps what he thought he wanted.

She looked up at the weather-stained building around her and flicked to the relevant page in the guidebook she’d bought in the hotel’s gift shop that morning.

The Hôtel des Invalides, she read, comprises the largest single complex of monuments in Paris. It was founded in 1670 as a military hospital and barracks by Louis XIV, the Sun King. Today it houses the Musée de l’Armée and the remains of Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte, transferred from St Helena in 1840 and housed under the magnificent gilded dome of the Eglise St. Louis, one of Paris’s most well-known landmarks. No expense was spared for the tomb and Napoleon’s body lies within six separate coffins — iron, mahogany, two of lead, ebony, and red porphyry — the whole resting on a green-granite pedestal.

She looked up and smiled. Half of the cobblestone courtyard was bathed in light, the other cloaked in shadow as the sun made its way over the sloping roof. Windows had been set into the gray slate, each one carved to look like a medieval knight’s helmet, while the rounded windows of the floor below echoed the swooping arches of the raised cloister that ran all the way around the courtyard. She stepped up into the cloister, walked past the rusting and scarred hulks of captured cannons that had been strapped to the wall or laid on wooden blocks, her nose buried in the guidebook again.