Raiders

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Jed Mason walked along Fifth Avenue with one hand in his pocket. In his other hand he held a sturdy steel tube.

The Istanbul Asset.

He glanced to his left where a blackbird flew over the street and cruised over the trees into Central Park; it was a perfect day, but any sense of achievement or pride he would normally feel after completing a mission was destroyed by the terrible murder of Virgil Lehman. Killed in cold blood by the Spiders when he was defending the dam from their terror attack, his old friend was a hero, but not one the world would ever know about. He’d had to break the news to Jen and that was not a moment he would ever forget.

He looked at his watch. Ezra Haven had summoned them all to the mysterious Titanfort for a meeting just before sunset. He still had time to draw a line under the Istanbul job and get to Hell’s Kitchen long before the sun went down.

Stepping into the shade of the French Consulate’s awning, he was met by a tall woman with shoulder-length brown hair. She wore dark red lipstick and a smart black suit.

“Mr Mason, I’m so glad you made it in one piece.”

“So I am, Madame Bernard,” he said. “Believe me, so am I.”

Her eyes danced over the steel tube. “I see you have it.”

“I do,” he said coolly. “And I presume you’re ready to wire the money?”

“When its authenticity has been appraised by us.”

Inside the lobby, they took the elevator up to Pascale Bernard’s office where a small, wiry man was waiting for them with a compact briefcase. His name was Sapin, and Pascale Bernard introduced him as an art appraiser from the Louvre.

Made sense.

Mason carefully unscrewed the tube and gently pulled out the painting, handing it to Sapin.

The Frenchman unrolled the work of art amid a chorus of tuts, sighs and headshakes. “And this has been taken care of, you say?”

Mason nodded. “I took every realistic care of it, Monsieur Sapin.”

Sapin gave him a doubtful look and then turned his eye to the Mona Lisa which was now flattened out on Pascale Bernard’s desk. A few moments of careful study ensued as Sapin made his tests. “A painting can be forged to absolute perfection,” he said absent-mindedly.

Mason got the impression only Madame Bernard was being addressed.

“Mais… the craquelure — the maze of miniscule cracks in the varnish — cannot. These can never be reproduced with any degree of realism.” He took the jeweller’s loupe from his eye and looked at the Consul General. “Il n’y a pas de doute, Madame. C’est authentique.”

Pascale Bernard faced Mason and offered a polite smile. “Monsieur Sapin is satisfied this is the original Mona Lisa by Da Vinci. I will have the five million dollars wired to your Swiss account immediately.”

Sapin raised an eyebrow. “Five million dollars is a lot of money for retrieving stolen art.”

“I was paid only one million for retrieving the art, Monsieur Sapin,” Mason said coolly. “The other four is for keeping my mouth shut about your museum letting it get stolen in the first place.”

The chastised Sapin said nothing.

“The reputation of not only the Louvre, but all of France was at stake, Mr Mason,” Pascale Bernard said gratefully. “You certainly lived up to your reputation. Extend my gratitude to your team, please. I hope they enjoy their reward.”

“I will,” Mason said, thinking only of Virgil. “Goodbye.”