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“Absolutely not,” Louis said.
The hacker took several steps away with that vacant expression, and I thought he was going off into orbit again. He stopped, however, and said, “I’m smarter than they are, Louis.”
“I have no doubt, my—”
“No,” the Dog insisted. “I am smarter, Louis. Before I went to the door, I quit out. But I’d already cracked the security and copied most of the stick wirelessly to my iCloud account.”
Part Four
Is Paris Burning?
Chapter 65
Pantin, northeastern suburbs of Paris
4:48 p.m.
SERGE MFUNE DROVE a stolen delivery van out of the condemned linen factory on the Canal de l’Ourcq. The sliding doors quickly slammed behind them, blocking any view of the sculpture inside.
In the passenger seat, Émile Sauvage looked over his shoulder at
the thick, rolled Oriental rug on top of a painter’s tarp that covered the heavy load of two large wooden crates.
The major turned his attention to the side-view mirror and appraised his disguise: thick black eyebrows, a dense black beard, and a wig. With a healthy dose of instant tan to turn his already bronze skin darker, a worn and faded gray workman’s jumpsuit, and a black-and-white checked scarf, he looked infinitely more North African than French.
Mfune was similarly dressed. Satisfied that they would pass muster, Sauvage turned his attention to the portable police scanner in his lap. It crackled with reports of building protests over the arrests. They mentioned disturbances in Sevran, like Pantin a suburb of Paris with a high concentration of immigrants.
“Building protests,” the captain said. “That’s good.”
“Predictable,” Sauvage said, nodding. “Sevran is always up for a riot.”
He got out a piece of paper with three phone numbers on it, and entered them into the burn phone’s memory.
Mfune glanced over. “Where’d you get them?”
“From someone who thinks like we do,” Sauvage said, and left it at that.
Fifteen minutes later, they came upon a burning vehicle being doused by a fire crew. A police officer stopped them and said, “Where are you headed?”
“Les Bosquets,” Mfune said.
“Not the best place to be after dark tonight.”
“We just deliver a rug and go,” Sauvage said in a thick accent.
The cop shrugged and waved them forward.
Mfune found a place to park the van on the Avenue Clichy-sous-Bois, next to the Bondy Forest and across the street from Les Bosquets housing project. Several groups of young immigrants milled about on the other side of the street. A few eyed the van suspiciously.
Sauvage and Mfune pulled on workmen’s gloves and climbed out, leaving the keys in the ignition and ignoring the watchful eyes. They went to the rear of the vehicle, opened it, and pulled out the rug, leaving the tarp and cargo in place.
After the doors were closed, they hoisted the rug onto their right shoulders, blocking a good look at their faces, and walked diagonally left across the boulevard. Rather than veer right onto one of the streets that veined the housing project, however, they walked on past the nearest high-rise apartment building, hearing music and voices pouring out the open windows.
They went around to the rear entrance, where several young men were standing about and smoking.
“Who’s that for?” one boy asked.
“Madame Lao,” Mfune said.
