“He was a lot,” I tell Lucie now.
“They all are.”
“What exactly have you figured out?”
“How we’ll steal the paintings from the Orsay. It’s perfect. I’m absolutely brilliant.” She flops flamboyantly on the couch.
“Your humility consistently astounds me. Can I grab myself a snack while you tell me? I’m starving.”
“Didn’t you eat at Lapérouse last night?”
“Yeah, but the dishes are insanely small. They must cost at least twenty francs a bite. Go on, I’m listening.”
“A bomb threat.”
“What?” I choke. “You want to call a bomb threat into the Orsay?”
“No. Not exactly. We’ll defuse the bomb threat.”
“What bomb threat?”
“The one we create.”
“I’m not following.”
“You know one of my regulars is at the top of thedéminage, the bomb squad. A few weeks ago, he was responsible for clearing out Montparnasse station when there was a threat.”
“I read about it in the paper. Didn’t that threat turn out to be some kid’s backpack that they left behind on the Métro?”
“It did. I saw my guy right after and he was still in his gear. That’s when I got the idea. You know how he loves role-play?”
Now I remember that Lucie’s nickname for this client is the Rock Star because he once asked her to pretend he was a famous musician and she was a devoted fan, which wouldn’t have been odd had they simply playacted that out in a bar, but he actually snuck them backstage at the Parc des Princes stadium during a Céline Dion show.
“So how does his fetish for role-play factor into your grand plan?”
“Well, last night I wanted to test something out. I decided I would choose the scenario. I called him from inside the Jules Verne and said there was a potential threat to the Eiffel Tower that he had to deal with immediately.”
The Jules Verne, named for the famous novelist, is the absurdly expensive restaurant on the second floor of the Eiffel Tower. I’ve never been, but Lucie regularly frequents their bar.
“So he arrived at the Verne, in plain clothes, told the maître d’ he was the head of the déminage, assured him he didn’t have to worry, but he needed to do a routine check of the private dining room. He flashed his credentials. They cleared it out quietly and we fucked right on one of the tables.”
I’m no longer shocked by anything Lucie tells me, but this still makes me choke slightly on my muesli.
“They just let him go in?”
“They let him do whatever he wants. They didn’t even look twice at the badge.”
“So we would…”
“Show up at the Orsay in the middle of the night in uniforms, flash a badge, tell them there’s been a credible enough threat that we need security to clear out of certain galleries while we make a sweep. We get at least fifteen minutes to ourselves in the galleries, we replace the paintings with the fakes, and we move out. Think about it…sexy bomb squad agents. It’s like the beginning of a porno.”
“What about cameras?”
“There aren’t cameras in every gallery. Colette has been researching their security. She told one of the museum administrators she was doing it for a school project. She looks so innocent. People believe anything she says.”
Lucie keeps going. “The paintings Stella selected are in galleries with no cameras. But there are motion sensors. They’re connected to a printer in the security office that can map out most of the movements of people inside the museum.”
“So you would need a reason to be moving around a particular gallery after hours?”
