It wasn’t like that when I first arrived. I left Brussels in a rental vehicle, then drove straight back to Seine-et-Marne, parking three miles away from Mercier’s chateau and hiking in as close as I could get without revealing myself.
The police were already here when I arrived.
Dozens of vehicles. Multiple French law enforcement agencies and some international ones as well.
If Saint had known I’d come back here, he would have cheerfully killed me even though he has no right to be offended at anything I do now. The risk I’m taking by hiding in the trees to watch what’s going on is immense. It would not have been unheard of for the enforcement agencies to search the entire grounds. If they’d looked, I could have easily been found, which would have raised a lot of awkward questions.
I can only deduce the reason no one has ventured my way is they quickly found Julian Mercier in his château with the four hundred million euro worth of gemstones Saint and I had stolen. I’m assuming they must have figured there wasn’t much else they needed to do once they found the loot.
I’d watched as they led Mercier out in handcuffs—his guards, too. Other house staff came out as well, not secured in restraints but put into police vehicles and driven away, presumably for questioning.
Officers came out carrying large evidence bags, which, if I had to guess, held the diamonds and our nylon bags, which would have to be processed. They’d find the GPS chip on the necklace and wonder how stupid Mercier must have been not to spot it.
And yes, they’d speculate if Mercier had pulled the heist off alone and why, especially given his reputation as a legitimate businessman, but they’d also pound him hard to see if he’d give up any potential accomplices.
Bottom line, Saint and I didn’t think they’d get any solid information out of him any time soon. He’s going to clam up and hire an attorney. If he finds it beneficial to himself to name his co-conspirators, he won’t play those cards so early on in the process. We were fairly certain of that.
It took hours and hours for them to process Mercier’s house. Finally, by midnight, the last of the police cars had left and the house was dark. I continued to watch in case someone else would come back, but now I feel secure enough to make my move. There are a few hours until daybreak which should give me more than enough time to do what I need to do.
With a set of manual lock picks I always carry with me, a pair of cheaply purchased gloves and my own gumption, I enter Mercier’s house. The police were not worried about engaging his alarm system when they left, and it’s eerily quiet when I walk in.
This could end up being the easiest heist I’ve ever attempted.
I make my way down to the basement level to Mercier’s office. The police have tossed it, pulling open every cabinet and drawer. Black fingerprint dust is everywhere.
It would be so easy to alleviate Mercier of all of his legitimately purchased art he keeps down here. Millions of dollars’ worth of the stuff—all mine for the taking if I want. I’m sure he’ll be allowed to return home pending a trial, and it would give me immense satisfaction knowing he would walk into his basement to find his treasures cleaned out.
But I’m not here for that.
I’m here for one thing only.
The Renoir I’d stolen from Lord Dennison’s apartment.
I’m not sure why it’s bothering me so much. I’ve not had attacks of conscience over any other robberies I’ve pulled off. The only difference I can point to is Saint coming back into my life. Perhaps I’d already been dreaming of a new future—away from this—when I’d willingly gone into Dennison’s apartment and poisoned him.
Whatever the reason, I have an opportunity to make this right.
I’m convinced it’s here somewhere, hidden carefully for Mercier’s own personal enjoyment. He’s a true collector. He hadn’t made us take that Renoir to sell it on the black market because it would only get a pittance of a profit compared to its true worth.
He had us steal that Renoir because he found it to be beautiful… and he wanted to possess it.
I intend to find it.
I leave the office and go into the cavernous interior of the basement, moving around the perimeter. After I check for any hidden doors or seams in the wall that could indicate a secret room, I pull every legitimate painting off the walls and turn them over to see if he reverse-framed the Renoir on the back of one.
Nothing.
I find a wine cellar on the opposite end of the basement from the staircase, but it proves to be nothing but a place to store actual wine.
Frustrated, I return to Mercier’s office. I’ll have to search the rest of the house, too, but if Mercier has been hoarding stolen art and other precious works as I suspect, it makes the most sense that it would be down here.
I move around the outer edge of his office, carefully running my fingers along the wall looking for seams. A check of his cabinetry and shelving units turns up nothing.
Finally, I move over to his desk and start to rifle through his drawers, not exactly sure what I’m searching for. It’s not like I believe he keeps a map in here pointing me to stolen art.
One drawer is locked, and I pull out my lock picks to work on it. Leaning over to get a better look at it, I insert the first pick into the keyhole… and that’s when I see it.
Under the lip of the desk at the corner, there’s a tiny black button no bigger than a pea and set almost flush into the wood so it would have been hard to feel if I’d run my fingertips over the area.
Reaching out, I touch the button lightly and feel it depress. There’s a metal grinding sound. With a soft whoosh, the desk starts to slide to my left.
It keeps slowly moving away from where I’m sitting in Mercier’s rolling chair, until it almost pushes up against a bookshelf.
I’m stunned to find a rectangular opening in the floor with a staircase leading down into a sub-basement area. From what I can see, it’s already lit with wall sconces.
“Bingo,” I murmur, my heart racing over my discovery.
There’s no hesitation. I bolt from the chair and start down the secret staircase.
The first thing I notice is it’s temperature controlled. One would expect a secret area below the basement might be cold and damp, but I get the exact opposite. That says that whatever is down here is particularly important and well taken care of. Frankly, that can only mean it’s the illegal stuff.
At the bottom is a small foyer-type area bordered by stone walls on three sides and a large steel door with a lever knob. There’s no obvious locking mechanism, and I push the lever down.
The door swings open with a tiny nudge. I’m left gaping openmouthed at a tiny art museum. The room is no more than thirty-by-thirty feet with thick carpeting, paneled walls, and a padded bench covered in royal blue velvet in the center. A handful of paintings cover each wall, all professionally mounted and lit. The wall to my left houses the Renoir I’d stolen a few weeks ago, and I don’t waste any time moving to it.
Within five easy minutes, I have the painting tucked under my arm and I’ve navigated my way out of the chateau and back into the woods surrounding the property.
Another twenty minutes puts me back in my rental car and heading into the heart of Paris.
My goal is to return the painting, and I already have a plan for that. An old underground contact is going to rent a low-budget hotel room for me, one that doesn’t have security cameras and does have lazy desk clerks. I’m going to leave the painting in the room, then make a simple call to the police alerting them to its location.