Page 98 of Savage Justice

“That’s Montrou’s problem, but my hunch is that Sheikh Mustafa will want it authenticated. The suggestion that he’s purchased a fake will eat away at him.”

Molly agrees. “He’s in a no-win situation. Either he’s bought a stolen work of art, in which case under international law he’ll have to give it back. Or he’s allowed himself to be duped and he’s been sold a forgery, and that will be even worse in his eyes. His pride, his standing as an expert, all will be called into question. Not to mention the money he’s lost.”

“Life’s a bitch,” Ethan murmurs. “Nico, I want you to see this gets to Montrou in Luxembourg.”

I take the envelope. “Consider it done, boss. I’ll leave in an hour.”

Molly wanted to come with me, but I convinced her otherwise.

“He might recognise you.”

“I’ve never met him…”

“No, but you know what he looks like, don’t you?”

“Yes, but only from pictures. Television…”

“You underestimate your own fame, sweetheart. Anyone in the art world could recognise you the same way. There needs to be no connection, nothing at all to link you, or me, to any of this.”

“I can see that. But—”

“But nothing. I need to go on my own. I’ll slip in and out of the country within an hour.” It’s not as though I don’t have experience of crossing borders while staying invisible. It comes with my job. I don’t mention that, though.

“What if he sees you?”

“He won’t. But even if he did, he wouldn’t know who I am.” I already have a disguise in mind. Parcel couriers come and go all the time. All I need is a white van, an Amazon sweatshirt, and a baseball cap.

She agrees, reluctantly. “I want to know as soon as it’s done. I need to know you’re safe…”

I kiss her. “Keep the bed warm, sweetheart. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

Magda flies me to Luxembourg and drops me off in a secluded wooded area just outside the town of Ettelbruck, north of the capital city. A van is waiting. I’ve brought the rest of my props myself.

“It’s twenty-five kilometres to Luxembourg City. I’m allowing an hour each way.”

“I’ll be waiting,” she assures me.

I pull the cap down over my face and start the engine.

The journey is uneventful, but the traffic in the city itself in a bitch, like any capital city, anywhere in the world. I locate Montrou’s apartment block easily, but finding a place to stop is not so straightforward. In the end, I double-park in the underground car park serving the building next door and stroll along the Rue de Treves. No point attracting attention by jogging, though everyone else here seems to be in a hurry, too.

I ring the outer buzzer and I’m let into the building by the concierge.

“Forfait pour appartement trente-et-un,” I trot out in my best schoolboy French. I rehearsed the line on my way over here in the chopper.

The man barely raises his gaze from the magazine he’s absorbed in. “Troisième étage. L'ascenseur est là-bas,” he replies, pointing over to his left.

Third floor. I knew that already. The lift is handy. I press the call button.

The ride is smooth and uninterrupted. I emerge onto a thickly carpeted hallway. A sign opposite the lift tells me to turn left for apartments thirty to thirty-five. Fair enough.

I find myself outside number thirty-one, and I knock. If there’s no answer, I’ll post the envelope through the letterbox, but I prefer to hand it over.

The door is opened by a blonde, aged around thirty-five, wearing a rather fetching ankle-length kimono. I suspect that’s all she’s wearing.

“Colis pour M. Montrou.” I thrust the envelope at her, now suitably camouflaged in Amazon packaging.

“Qui est-ce?” The male voice comes from somewhere within the apartment.

---