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fake license plate.
    Climbing into the driver’s seat, the assassin started the engine and rolled the car out onto the Rue du Cloître, keeping the speed under thirty. Reiniger crossed the nearby bridge onto Île Saint-Louis and soon found himself cruising along the main highway that led toward Charles de Gaulle Airport, a thirty minute drive away. As the dominating view of the cathedral recessed into the distance, Reiniger allowed himself a flicker of a smile.
    Just one more loose end to tie up.

Chapter 9
   

     
    THE SCRUFFY MONTMARTRE backstreets were overlooked by the white dome of the Basilica of the Sacré Cœur, which sat atop the highest point in the whole of Paris. Most of the summer crowds were milling around the grassy lawns at the base of the hill, while others sat on the steps, taking advantage of the sunshine and fresh air while they finished their packed lunches and watched their children run up and down the stairs.
    Leopold and Jerome trekked deeper into the trendy neighborhood, grateful for the cool shade offered by the terraced apartment buildings. Most of the architecture was old, slightly worn, but nonetheless possessing a charm that was unique to the French capital.
    “It should be just up here,” said Jerome, inspecting the GPS display on his cell phone. “Less than a minute’s walk.”
    The discussion with the personnel department at the Louvre had been quicker than Leopold had expected, and the information they needed had been handed over without much fuss. Apparently, namedropping director Dubois opened a lot of doors. Having an armed bodyguard along for the ride didn’t hurt, either. The clerk had printed out a short list of names based on the consultant’s criteria, and Leopold had picked the most likely match: an employee with the art restoration department who had called in sick for the last few days.
    “We’re looking for the number nineteen,” said Leopold, wiping his brow with the back of his sleeve. “Apartment number three.”
    “Sophie Bardot,” nodded Jerome. “We got a picture?”
    “No, the clerk only printed out the name and address. If she doesn’t answer, we’ll camp out and wait for her.” He pointed at a café a little further down the street, nestled on the corner with the familiar Parisian canopy and outdoor chairs.
    “Definitely more comfortable than staking out a place in the car. Here we are.”
    They walked up to one of the terraced apartment blocks and Leopold hit the buzzer. After the third jab, a voice crackled into life through the intercom.
    “ Oui, vous aider? ” the voice asked.
    Leopold leaned in to the grille. “Mademoiselle Bardot?”
    A short pause. “ Oui? ”
    “ Parlez-vous anglais? ” he asked. Do you speak English?
    “Yes. Who is this?”
    “My name is Leopold Blake. My associate and I are here from the New York Art Review Magazine. We were hoping to catch you at work, but the museum said you would be at home. We found your address online.” He waited for a response, hoping the lie would hold.
    A short pause. “And what can I help you with?”
    “We hoped to trouble you for a short interview. It would be a great opportunity for us to create a candid behind the scenes look at what goes on behind the walls of the Louvre. We want to show the world your talents, Mlle. Bardot. Will you spare us a few minutes?”
    Another pause. “ Pardon, I am not feeling too well. Please give me one moment.”
    “Of course.”
    After almost a minute of silence, “ D’accord. You can come on up. Third floor.”
    With a loud buzz, the door lock disengaged and the consultant pushed through into the communal hallway, a dark, cool passage sparsely decorated with white paint and a tile floor. The old wooden stairs leading up to Sophie’s apartment were toward the back of the room, and the steps creaked with over a century’s worth of warping as they climbed.
    On the third floor Sophie Bardot was waiting, a tall, slim, young-looking woman with jet