Read Chapter 29: A Slip of the Tongue

Claire’s hand shook as she lifted the glass of white wine to her lips. The café on the Rue de Seine had emptied out around them, leaving only the hiss of the espresso machine and the mutter of an old man reading *Le Monde* in the corner. Julien watched her over the rim of his own glass, waiting for the trembling to stop.

It didn’t.

“You’re not drinking,” she said, setting the glass down untouched.

“I’m driving.”

“You don’t own a car.”

“I’m driving metaphorically.”

Claire let out a breath that was half laugh, half sob. “Christ, Julien. You’re making jokes. Now?”

“It’s either that or scream.”

She pressed her palms flat against the table, fingers splayed, as if trying to steady the ground beneath her. Her face was pale, and there was a smear of ink across her knuckle—she’d been writing notes all afternoon, her nervous habit, lists and timelines and contingencies that multiplied like rabbits.

“I can’t do it,” she said.

“You can.”

“I can’t do it *alone*. You’ve got Roche breathing down your neck, Lefevre examining your papers at nine in the morning, and Victor Mariani—a dead man—calling you for a meeting at a fountain like a spy movie. And you want me to walk into that packing room with a genuine Caravaggio in my hands and swap it for your copy while ten security guards watch the loading dock?”

“Nine security guards. I bribed one.”

“That’s not funny.”

“It’s not meant to be.”

Julien reached across the table and took her hand. Her fingers were cold. He held them anyway.

“Claire, I need you to be the calm one. Because I’m not. I haven’t slept in three days, and I’m fairly certain Mariani is going to put a bullet in my skull before the auction even starts. But if you fall apart now, we’re done.”

She pulled her hand away and wrapped it around the wine glass. She didn’t drink. She just held it, like a talisman.

“What if Nadia gets hurt?”

“She won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know that the cabal doesn’t even know she exists. They think they’ve been dealing with me and me alone. Nadia is in Lyon, staying with your cousin. She’s safe.”

Claire shook her head slowly. “My cousin’s an alcoholic.”

“Then Nadia’s learning how to make a decent pastis.”

“Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop pretending this is all going to work because you’ve got a clever line for every moment. This isn’t a conversation. This is a plan with a hundred moving parts, and any one of them can—” She stopped. Pressed a hand to her mouth. Looked past his shoulder.

Julien turned. There was a woman at the bar, tall, in a dark trench coat, her hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. She was reading a newspaper, but her eyes were fixed on something else—the window, the street, them. It was hard to tell.

“Who is that?” Claire whispered.

“I don’t know.”

“She’s been watching us for the past ten minutes.”

“The café’s half empty. Maybe she’s just staring into the void like the rest of Paris.”

“Julien.”

He turned back. Claire’s face was white. “I talked to someone.”

“What?”

“This morning. Before the viewing. A woman came to the gallery. She said she was writing a piece for *Art Press* about the auction. She asked about the Caravaggio, about the provenance, about you. And I—God, Julien, I was so nervous about Lefevre and the examination and everything else, and I just—I wanted someone to know the truth. That we were doing something good. That you weren’t what they said you were.”

Julien felt the temperature of the room drop. “What did you tell her?”

“Everything. The swap. The packing room. The cabal. The Nazi loot. All of it.”

He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. His mind was a blank sheet of white noise, and then the noise resolved into a single ugly fact: the plan was dead. Everything he had built, every lie he had layered over the truth, every careful step he had taken toward Friday night—gone, poured into the ear of a stranger with a notepad.

“She had press credentials,” Claire said, voice thin. “She had a card. I checked.”

“Cards can be printed.”

“She knew things. About Paul. About the gallery. About your debts. She said she’d been covering the art world for years.”

“What was her name?”

Claire hesitated. “Inès. Inès Fontaine.”

The name meant nothing to him. That was worse.

“Why didn’t you tell me this before the viewing?” His voice came out low, controlled, barely a whisper.

“Because I didn’t want you to see me as weak. I thought I could fix it. I thought I could call her and tell her I misspoke, that I was exaggerating, that it was all a misunderstanding.”

“Did you?”

“No. I lost her card. I was so flustered after Roche and Lefevre—I dropped my bag, and I—I don’t have it.”

Julien closed his eyes. He counted to five. Then he opened them.

“Wait here.”

“Julien, don’t.”

He was already on his feet. The woman at the bar—the one in the trench coat—had folded her newspaper and was sliding off her stool. She saw him coming and didn’t flinch. She just stood, waiting, as he crossed the room, his heart hammering against his ribs like a caged animal.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, stopping an arm’s length away. “Do I know you?”

She smiled. It was a thin, practiced smile, the kind that had been used in interrogations. “Not yet.”

“I saw you watching us.”

“I was watching the street. The view is better from here.”

“You’re a journalist?”

“Something like that.”

“What do you write for?”

She reached into the pocket of her trench coat and pulled out a folded card. She handed it to him. It was cream-colored, heavy stock, the kind of card that cost money. The name on it read *Inès Fontaine*—above that, a logo he didn’t recognize. Below it, in small, raised letters: *Ministère de l’Intérieur*.

Under that, in smaller type: *Interpol, Division des Biens Culturels*.

Julien felt the floor tilt.

“You’re not a journalist,” he said.

“No.” She tucked the card back into her pocket. “But I am interested in your auction.”

“The auction is public.”

“The auction is a façade.” She stepped closer. Her perfume was something sharp, chemical. “You’re going to swap the painting. You’re going to expose a cabal of collectors who’ve been laundering stolen art for forty years. And you’re going to do it in front of the entire art world.” She paused. “Or you were. Tell me, Monsieur Moreau—how much of what your colleague said is true?”

“She was lying. She’s a nervous woman. She invents stories.”

“Is that so?” Inès glanced past him to Claire, who was still seated at the table, gripping her wine glass like a life raft. “She seems the type to buckle under pressure. I’d say she’s already started.”

“What do you want?”

“I want what you want.” Her eyes were flat. “I want the cabal exposed. But unlike you, I want them in handcuffs. And I’ve been tracking them for three years. I know exactly who they are. I know about the auction. I know about the forgery.” She looked at him, unblinking. “And I know about the real painting hidden in the warehouse on the Rue des Rosiers.”

Julien’s blood went cold.

“How did you—?”

“I’ve been watching you for two weeks, Monsieur Moreau. I know every move you’ve made. I know about the crate you shipped. I know about the meeting you’re planning with Victor Mariani at the Fontaine des Innocents.” She smiled again, and this time there was something else in it. “And I’m not going to stop you.”

“Then why tell me?”

“Because Friday night, when the swap happens, I’ll be in the packing room with your Claire. Not as an observer. As the one who takes the genuine Caravaggio into evidence and arrests every single member of the cabal who shows up to bid.” She stepped even closer, her voice dropping to a murmur. “You wanted to expose them. I’m going to put them in prison. Either way, they lose. The question is whether you help me—or whether you end up in a cell next to them.”

Julien’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. The woman—Inès, Interpol, whatever she was—waited, patient, already certain of the answer.

Behind him, Claire let out a sound that was almost a sob.