Chapter Twenty-One
Twenty-one
The Louvre is already crowded by the time we go in just past nine a.m. through the main pyramid entrance. Luca and Xhan follow a few steps behind, scanning the ticketing area for any sign of other players.
We walk through a wide, light-filled hall. Ahead is a long set of stairs—the Daru staircase—and at the top of them, like a glorious beacon, the Winged Victory stands vigil.
The stairs are like an Escher painting, with multiple flights going in different directions.
Dane and I ascend to the spacious landing in front of the Winged Victory.
The statue is the focal point from every direction, perched on a stone ship’s prow, which is itself on a long rectangular stone base.
The Nike is twenty-two hundred years old and still wows.
I love the way the marble shows movement in the slight forward angle of the statue, taking what comes, and her asymmetrical splay of wings is imperfectly perfect.
I can almost feel the wind pushing back, blowing the fabric of her dress against her.
One leg juts forward in a stance that says I’ve already won despite being armless and headless.
Her otherworldliness as a goddess is clear, and yet surprisingly human.
“Anything?” Dane asks in a low tone.
Right. I’m supposed to be looking. We have five minutes until 9:22 to see whatever we’re supposed to see. The statue is too high to see in detail when you’re up close. Dane and I move around the base.
“Nothing,” I say, moving to the side of the Nike. She’s amazing from all angles.
Dane checks his phone. “Three minutes.”
“Hope it’s not going to detonate at 9:22,” I say.
“That would be inconvenient.”
“I would have left a sticky note.” I gesture to the base. “Right there, in a crack.”
Dane snorts. “Sticky notes on ancient Greek statues don’t work well.”
“Neither does detonation.” I move around to the side of the asymmetrical wing.
There’s movement in the corner of my eye, down the stairs and under the main arch.
Someone’s moving. But the place is far from empty; visitors mill about, losing themselves in the staircases.
It’s that this person is moving too slowly.
There’s something off about it that I can’t put my finger on.
“There’s someone down there,” I say. “On the stairs.”
Dane moves toward me, and a little zing goes through me at this protective gesture. “And there’s a woman just over there who’s staring a little too pointedly to be a tourist. Don’t look. Black sweater. These people know nothing about tailing.” He tsks. “Amateurs.”
“What do we do?” I whisper. “Should we get away from the statue?”
“No. Just look like we paused here for a moment,” he says. He’s looking around like he’s studying the info displays.
“Where’s Luca and Xhan?” I ask. “Did you tell them through the invisible earpieces I hope you’re wearing?”
A hint of a smile plays on his lips. “We just text like normal people.”
I turn to look down the staircase, trying to keep the movement slow, but my nerves are on high alert.
No way to know if the man watching us is a single player or if he’s working in a team.
The woman in the black sweater is on an upper staircase, not even trying to hide that she’s staring.
“Do you think they know what we’re doing? ”
“Maybe they think we’re deciding which direction to go next,” Dane says. He takes out his phone and pretends to take a photo of the stairs, but I see him center the guy in the camera. He turns and does the same with the woman. “I have a feeling Sophie and Allard are behind their appearance.”
My heart races at the mention of last night, of Sophie’s party. “Do these people know who we are?”
“We’re lingering around the statue,” Dane points out.
“That doesn’t mean anything. We could be tourists stunned by the majesty of the statue. We could be using the space to pause and have a romantic moment.” I don’t know why I said it.
No, I know why. I want it to be true.
“I could kiss you if you think it’ll help,” Dane says. There’s sarcasm in his tone…but also a slight question.
And I want to call him on it, this dance we’re doing. I want to push it. See how far he’ll take it. “It might. We’re just visiting Paris on a romantic trip. That’s all. Kiss me and maybe they’ll believe it.”
He smirks at me. “All right. It’ll distract them both from the statue.”
“Lay it on me.”
I’m goading him. Dane must know it. But he steps over to me and instead of planting his lips on me and going for it full bore, he tilts my chin up with two fingers.
He looks at me for a long moment, his eyes searching mine—for what I don’t know—and then he angles my chin and his lips meet mine in the softest, sweetest touch I’ve ever felt, followed by a harder, hot press to my mouth.
I’m shocked. This is not an act. This is him kissing me.
There’s a current running through my chest, and I part my lips on a sigh.
His tongue slips into my mouth like a warm whisper, and I close my eyes, tasting him, sucking his lip, and now his hands are holding my arms, pulling me closer.
There’s no hesitation in the way his lips move on mine, no caution or question.
My palms slide up his chest, over his shoulders, up the back of his neck and into the softness of his hair.
There’s a little moan in my throat as he deepens the kiss, licking me, licking my tongue.
I’m on my tiptoes, a flush over my whole body.
He brings his hand up to my face and holds my jaw, nipping my lips.
I taste his bottom lip back and melt into his mouth.
He kisses exactly like I thought he would, and the thought is so satisfying, so sure, that I exhale in pleasure.
Something catches my eye over his shoulder.
It’s so faint you’d miss it if you weren’t looking—and perhaps only from this angle.
A green light is being projected on the side of the statue’s base.
I pull away from Dane’s mouth, and before I can get the words out to tell him what I’m seeing, I see an expression cross his face that I recognize, because I feel it too: regret that it ended.
I hear what he’s telling me loud and clear: That kiss was phenomenal.
As I turn to examine the base, I realize it’s not just a light, it’s a code. “There’s a QR code on the statue.”
He checks his watch. “And it’s 9:22. We need to get a photo of the code.”
I pull out my phone and snap the code. Immediately, my phone recognizes it and lists a web address, which I click.
“You’ve got it?” Dane asks, his voice panicked. Footsteps pound up the stairs behind us.
“Yes.” I look behind us, and the guy who was watching us is approaching. The woman is still on the stairs, and she has what looks like a long-lens camera in her hands. Damn. The QR code, I notice, is already fading from wherever it’s being projected.
Both the man on the stairs below and the woman on the stairs above start running toward us.
And worse—the unmistakable form of Allard appears in the distance on the stairs under one of the arches. Dane’s phone buzzes, and he checks it.
“Gotta go,” he says tersely, leading me up the short stairs opposite to a huge arch, into another wing. Is his pulse racing as fast as mine?
We keep speedwalking, turning a corner and another. We’re in a room of paintings. I look behind us and catch sight of Allard’s enormous head.
“Faster,” I say, and Dane squeezes my hand gently in response.
We weave around people down a long hall, my heart jackhammering, then race up a staircase into the Salle Daru, a long, red-walled room with giant canvases, and turn into another wing and look back.
None of the three appear to be following.
Dane loosens his grip on my hand, and his fingers remain on my skin for only a heartbeat.
And then Allard appears at the end of the gallery.
Right behind him is the man who was watching us from the stairs.
Fear streaks an icy path through me. We run through to another gallery, dodging people and benches, ignoring shouts to stop from the room attendants.
We swerve through a group of children—a school trip, chattering and laughing.
The place is too massive to have any kind of comprehensive path.
It’s all so much sweeping ceiling and arches and grandeur.
“Oh, God, we’re so far from the entrance,” I murmur.
“Keep it together,” Dane says, taking my hand again, this time for a quick, encouraging squeeze. “We’re going to be fine.”
But a huge crowd ahead slows us, and I see why: the Mona Lisa. We try to skirt it, but people press in, holding their phones aloft, filming instead of looking with their own eyes. Dane pulls me to the edge of the room, and we push through, but not before I catch a glimpse of the Mona Lisa’s smirk.
The only good thing about the crowd is that it slows Allard and the other guy.
Finally, we’re clear and headed down a staircase, through long hallways of Italian Renaissance works.
All of it is gorgeous, meant to impress and inspire awe and wonder, but right now it’s a blur.
Somehow we emerge into the main entrance area, the bottom of the escalators from the pyramid, and Luca and Xhan are waiting there.
Dane says in a hurried rush, “We got the puzzle and I got your text. Allard’s coming and maybe two others.”
“Go,” Luca says, his face tight. His jovial cheer is gone. “Get outside. I’ll stay back and distract them.”
Xhan and Dane and I scuttle up the escalators, and then we’re outside in the huge square under the blue sky among the throngs of tourists, safe from our pursuers. But how long until they catch up?