“I don’t think so,” Lucie says. “We got lucky. I think they’re all super high. The security room reeked of pot. The last thing they want is someone coming down here and asking them questions. I loosened them all up with a story about the time I defused a bomb in the toilet of the prime minister’s house.”
“Oh, did you?”
“It was a hilarious shit storm the way I told it.”
We’re silent as we finish the climb, but every sound echoes. Each squeak of my black sneakers sounds like a fire alarm. I lift the heavy case up each stair so it doesn’t clatter, and curse Stella for choosing paintings on such a high floor of the museum as I try to catch my breath at the top. I quickly pull out the walkie-talkie from my pocket and whisper into it.
“Everything good out there?”
“All clear, nothing to see except some teenagers mooning me off the Pont Royal,” Colette whispers back through the crackly speaker.
We make our way to salon 36 and I begin removingLa Chambre à Arles,the painting of Van Gogh’s bedroom in the yellow house he shared with Paul Gauguin before he sliced off his ear and was committed to an asylum. Lucie slips into the next salon to take the Renoir.
We’re working mostly in the dark, our flashlights bobbing on our belts to keep our hands free. I’ve clipped the dog to my waist, but he has no interest in doing anything but sniffing my pocket for the bacon I’ve put in there to reward him when we’re finished.
My hands are steady despite everything at stake. This is the moment we’ve prepared for. I extend my arms as wide as I can and grasp the gilded frame on either end, lifting it slightly in expectation of a standard wall mount. It will only come about four inches from the wall. I run my hand into the narrow spacebetween the canvas and the wall, only to find a thin metal wire running from the back of the frame to somewhere inside the plaster.
“Lucie,” I whisper, keeping my voice low, though it easily carries into the next room. “There’s a security wire.”
She turns, her flashlight briefly illuminating my face. “Remember, we prepared for this.”
I run my fingers along the wire, tracing it to where it disappears into a small hole in the wall.
My mind races. We did prepare for this, but even Colette’s sources said only a third of the paintings have these kinds of wires. If we cut it, it could trigger an alarm once the electricity returns. If we don’t remove it properly, we can’t take the painting. The minutes are ticking by.
“Can we detach it from the frame?” Lucie asks, now at my side. She’s finished her work with the Renoir and already has it packed in the case.
I examine the connection point, my fingers working delicately in the dim light. “It’s attached with some kind of specialized screw. I need…” I trail off, searching through the utility belt for something that might help.
Clovis whines softly, growing restless. I pat his head absently, my other hand still exploring the unexpected security feature. Then I feel the multi-tool dangling off my belt. Stella insisted I bring it.Always be prepared for the unexpected, she’d said.
“Hold your flashlight here,” I whisper to Lucie.
She aims her light precisely where I need it. I fumble for the smallest attachment from the multi-tool and carefully insert it into the specialized screw on the back of the canvas.
“It’s not budging,” I breathe, feeling sweat bead on my forehead despite the cool air.
“Let me try,” Lucie says, handing me her flashlight. Her fingers are longer, stronger from years of sculpting. She applies steady pressure, turning the tool with painful slowness. A full minute passes in silence.
Then we hear a faint click.
“Got it,” she whispers, carefully disconnecting the security wire from the frame.
Despite their small size compared to some of the massive pieces in the Orsay, the painting is still heavy and unwieldy in its frame. I feel like I’m maneuvering a corpse into a body bag as I take it from the wall and slip it into the protective sheath and then into the hard-shelled rolling suitcase.
Lucie works on resecuring the wire to my copy of the painting before hanging it on the wall.
Within minutes my forgery is in place and we’re making our way back toward the stairs. We’re out of the gallery when an explosion of sound and light erupts around us. Lucie grabs me from behind and pulls me down onto the floor.
“What the hell?”
The next flash of white and crack of gunpowder reveal that the fireworks have started early. We’re standing in my favorite spot in front of the grand clock window on the fifth floor. Its glass and thin metal framing shudder from the booming explosions outside and Lucie and I release a sigh of relief at the same time as we both try to muffle a laugh. We stand and clutch each other, watching the spectacle of light reflected in the Seine.
“It’s a good omen.” Lucie squeezes me even tighter into her. “The world is cheering us on.”
I want to believe her more than anything. I squeeze her back, and for the first time in my life, I pray. But even as I do, I can’t shake the feeling that this was the easy part.
“To us!” Lucie makes thetenth toast of the night in our hotel suite.
