Prologue

           LouvreMuseum,Paris10:46P.M.

           RenownedcuratorJacquesSaunièrestaggeredthroughthevaultedarchwayofthemuseum’sGrandGallery.Helungedforthenearestpaintinghecouldsee,aCaravaggio.Grabbingthegildedframe,theseventy-six-year-oldmanheavedthemasterpiecetowardhimselfuntilittorefromthewallandSaunièrecollapsedbackwardinaheapbeneaththecanvas.

           Ashehadanticipated,athunderingirongatefellnearby,barricadingtheentrancetothesuite.Theparquetfloorshook.Faroff,analarmbegantoring.

           Thecuratorlayamoment,gaspingforbreath,takingstock.Iamstillalive.Hecrawledoutfromunderthecanvasandscannedthecavernousspaceforsomeplacetohide.

           Avoicespoke,chillinglyclose.«Donotmove.»

           Onhishandsandknees,thecuratorfroze,turninghisheadslowly.

           Onlyfifteenfeetaway,outsidethesealedgate,themountainoussilhouetteofhisattackerstaredthroughtheironbars.Hewasbroadandtall,withghost-paleskinandthinningwhitehair.Hisiriseswerepinkwithdarkredpupils.Thealbinodrewapistolfromhiscoatandaimedthebarrelthroughthebars,directlyatthecurator.«Youshouldnothaverun.»Hisaccentwasnoteasytoplace.«Nowtellmewhereitis.»

           «Itoldyoualready,»thecuratorstammered,kneelingdefenselessonthefloorofthegallery.«Ihavenoideawhatyouaretalkingabout!»

           «Youarelying.»Themanstaredathim,perfectlyimmobileexceptfortheglintinhisghostlyeyes.«Youandyourbrethrenpossesssomethingthatisnotyours.»

           Thecuratorfeltasurgeofadrenaline.