About the Book

CRIME IS AFOOT IN THE CITY OF LOVE!

Someone stole the Mona Lisa. Okay, it was over a hundred years ago, but a
recently uncovered letter reveals that the thief forged a copy. That means
the painting in the Louvre now is a fake. And the real Mona Lisa could be
anywhere!

Friday Barnes needs to find the truth – and the real painting. She’s going
undercover as an art student, along with her partner-in-crime-solving,
Melanie, and her staggeringly good-looking boyfrenemy, Ian.

As they watch the comings and goings of France’s most famous art gallery,
they see some very strange things. Amid digital pickpockets, guerrilla
graffiti and projectile perfume, Friday soon discovers that the Paris art
scene is a hotbed of crime.

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 Contents

Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Previously in Friday Barnes
Chapter 1: Delay
Chapter 2: Getting There
Chapter 3: The Missing Mrs
Chapter 4: The Mission
Chapter 5: The Skinny
Chapter 6: Fitting In
Chapter 7: Their New Roommate
Chapter 8: In the Room
Chapter 9: The Most Famous Painting in the World
Chapter 10: No
Chapter 11: Secret Admirer
Chapter 12: Fake Date Night
Chapter 13: Uncle Bernie in Italy
Chapter 14: Venus de Milo
Chapter 15: Still in New York
Chapter 16: Science
Chapter 17: Oh So Quiet
Chapter 18: Chaos
Chapter 19: Siege Mentality
Chapter 20: The Bowels of Paris
Chapter 21: Denouement
Friday Barnes: Collision Course
Extract from Friday Barnes: Girl Detective
About the Author
Books by R. A. Spratt
Friday Barnes: Collect Them All . . .
Have You Read the Peski Kids?
Have You Read Nanny Piggins?
Have You Read the Short Story Collections?
Imprint
Read More at Penguin Books Australia

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 In memory of Pam Swain

On a fateful day in 1997, Pam agreed to let me be an intern at Good News

Week, the TV program she produced. When I arrived, she made me a cup of
tea (with lumpy milk past its use-by date) and gave me a script to read.
When I told her I wanted to work with the assistant director she informed
me that the AD wasn’t there that day and I’d have to work with the writers
instead. The rest is history. I have been a writer ever since. I will be forever
grateful for Pam’s kindness, humour and generosity.

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Friday, Melanie and Ian were sitting in the customs shed at Svalbard
Airport. Binky, Princess Ingrid and Uncle Bernie were with them. Friday
had just solved the mystery of a major European art smuggling operation.
The suspects were handcuffed to a bench at the far end of the room and
now, they were all waiting for their transport flight back to the mainland.
‘So, what are you going to do now?’ asked Ian. ‘Are you coming back
to Bilbao with us? Or are you going to stay here and take over the
Norwegian Police Service?’
‘I’m sure Father would be very happy to arrange an appointment for
you, if that’s what you’d like,’ said Ingrid.
Friday didn’t know what to say. She was still in shock from the attack at
the Seed Vault, being kidnapped and confronting a polar bear. She wasn’t
really in the mindset to make major life decisions.
‘You’re not doing either,’ said Uncle Bernie.
‘I’m not?’ said Friday. For a horrible moment, she thought Uncle Bernie
meant that she wasn’t welcome to join his family. She’d had enough
rejection from her own immediate family. She didn’t think she could take
any more.
‘No, because we’re not going back to Spain either,’ said Bernie.
‘What?’ exclaimed Ian.
‘That job is done,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘We’ve got all the culprits
arrested right here – aside from the buyer. Our Russian office is going to try
to nab him for that. Although I think we’re more likely to get him for
misuse of a submarine.’
‘Then where are we going next?’ asked Ian.
‘Do you know anything about the Mona Lisa?’ asked Uncle Bernie.
 ‘Everyone knows something about the Mona Lisa,’ said Ian. ‘It’s the
most famous painting in the world.’
‘Well, it was stolen,’ said Uncle Bernie.
‘No way!’ said Ian. ‘When?’
‘In 1911,’ said Uncle Bernie.
‘That’s over a hundred years ago!’ said Ian.
‘I’m explaining the background,’ said Uncle Bernie.
‘I’ve read about that,’ said Friday. ‘It was found two years after it was
stolen. It was hidden in the apartment of Vincenzo Peruggia, an Italian artist
who had worked at the Louvre. It was returned to Paris.’
‘That’s right,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘But here’s the twist – new evidence
has turned up. We have reason to believe that, during that two-year absence,
it was copied. The painting that has been in the Louvre ever since is a fake.
If that’s true, we’ve got to find the real one.’
‘So we’re going to Paris?’ said Ian.
‘Yay!’ said Melanie. ‘That’s the perfect place for you two. The city of
love!’
Friday and Ian looked at each other.
‘I’m game if you are?’ said Ian.
‘Well . . . I have always wanted to see Madame Curie’s laboratory,’ said
Friday.
‘Of course,’ said Ian. ‘Because when you think of Paris, you think of
radiation.’
‘Marie and Pierre Curie were the first married couple to win a Nobel
Prize together,’ said Friday. ‘That is romantic.’
Ian smiled. ‘I guess so. I guess if you can find radiation romantic, then
there is hope for you after all.’

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One week later.

Friday was not in Paris. She was lying in bed in the hypothermia ward of
Oslo University Hospital. And she was feeling very sorry for herself. Her
boyfriend, Ian (she was pretty sure she could call him her boyfriend now.
Like most boys, Ian did not seem keen on commitment. And commitment to
using the word ‘boyfriend’ was apparently more terrifying than taking on a
team of heavily armed Russian art thieves. But Ian was definitely her friend
who was a boy, and he seemed to hold her hand often enough. And he had
kissed her at least five times. She was pretty sure that would be covered by
any reasonable person’s definition of the term ‘boyfriend’.) . . . anyway, Ian
was in Paris, without her.
This was upsetting. It was not that Friday didn’t trust Ian. It was just
that she knew what she looked like. She also knew what French girls looked
like. And she was well aware of the concept of probability. Her heart might
tell her one thing, but the mathematical part of her brain was making
calculations. It was just a statistical fact that the probability of Ian meeting
someone better looking than her, coming to his senses and forgetting about
her was high.
If Friday had been able to go to Paris, at least he wouldn’t be able to
forget she existed. But Friday wasn’t going anywhere. She hadn’t realised
she had hypothermia until she got off the plane in Oslo and face-planted on
the tarmac of the airport. Friday falling over was not an unusual occurrence.
She was a deeply clumsy person. But when the airport paramedics checked
her and discovered that she had an atypical heart rhythm they flew into
action. Norwegians take hypothermia very seriously. When your average
winter temperature is below zero, your medical professionals get to see a lot
of it. Hypothermia can have some weird and nasty symptoms, so Friday
was whisked off to the top teaching hospital in the country and given the
latest exothermic treatments, which consisted of warmed IV fluids,
whirlpool baths and constant heart monitoring. If her organs were going to
fail, the doctors wanted to know at the first sign.
Friday was sharing a room with Mrs Philipson, an elderly Alzheimer’s
sufferer who had locked herself out of her house in -10°C conditions, then
sat down in her garden for two hours because she thought she was on a
dinner date with one of her garden gnomes. Mrs Philipson enjoyed hospital.
Her favourite bit was disassembling medical equipment, because she liked
the pretty coloured wires inside.
‘This is ridiculous,’ grumbled Friday from inside her cocoon of blankets
that had been specially warmed to the optimal forty degrees centigrade.
‘It’s lovely,’ said Melanie. The nurses liked Melanie, because she was
always nice and polite and she brought in muffin baskets. So one of the
nurses had given her a warmed blanket too, even though she was just a
visitor. Now they were waiting for lunch. Melanie liked the sandwiches best
because they were cut into four, just like her nanny had done when she was
little.
Friday didn’t mind the medical treatment so much. She was a scientist.
She appreciated that everything the medical staff was doing for her was an
appropriate response to her symptoms and based on the latest clinically
proven treatments. But Friday did not like being shut in. She’d spent eleven
months in juvenile detention earlier that year for a crime she didn’t commit
(well technically, she had inadvertently advised a conspiracy to commit a
crime, but she hadn’t known that was what she was doing at the time). The
whole thing had left her more than a bit traumatised. Being shut in a
hospital ward clawed at her soul, no matter how well intentioned the shut-in
order was.
Friday also resented the rules. The head nurse was very strict that there
should be no excessive mental stimulation or stress. This meant that patients
were not permitted to do work of any kind. Most patients were so
desperately grateful to still be alive that they were happy to go along with
this rule. But Friday was champing at the bit to start investigating the case
of the missing Mona Lisa. She wanted to read the case notes, consult
reference books and have long conversations with Bernie about the
suspects. The head nurse would not allow any of this.
When Interpol had sent over some background files with Agent
Christianson, the head nurse had loudly told him off and banned him from
returning to the ward. And when she had caught Friday taking the bandages
off her hands so she could write down some notes while talking to Uncle
Bernie on the telephone, the head nurse had confiscated the phone and
banned Bernie from calling back.
Friday had to just lie there. The only thing she was allowed to do was
watch television, which wasn’t terribly stimulating. Reality TV was bad
enough, but reality TV in Norwegian was just plain confusing. Melanie was
allowed to bring in gossip magazines and read them to her and the saddest
part was, after four days in hospital, this was becoming the intellectual
highlight of her day.
‘According to this,’ said Melanie, ‘you can lose ten kilos in three weeks
if you only eat watermelon.’
‘That’s because you’ll have early-stage malnutrition,’ said Friday. ‘Keep
it up for another nine weeks and you’ll be dead, or develop scurvy or
perhaps rickets. Whichever one gets you first, your hair will definitely fall
out. Then I suppose you’ll lose even more weight because a full head of
hair must weigh one hundred grams, perhaps more if your hair is thick and
long.’
‘Do you want to see what celebrities look like without their makeup?’
asked Melanie.
‘No,’ said Friday. ‘I never go to the movies and I barely watch TV. I
don’t know what celebrities look like with their makeup. I’d have no basis
of comparison.’
‘Basically, they look like real people,’ said Melanie. ‘I know it shouldn’t
be shocking, but it’s profoundly disappointing.’
‘You’re sad because extremes of archetypal human beauty don’t really
exist?’ asked Friday.
‘I’m sad because if this is what celebrities really look like . . .’ said
Melanie, ‘. . . the most famous, beautiful people in the world are secretly
puffy and wrinkly. Then that means – there’s no-one who knows what to do
for a good skin care regime.’
‘I think I’m going to die of boredom,’ said Friday.
 ‘You’re not bored,’ said Melanie. ‘You just miss Ian.’
‘What?’ said Friday.
‘You’re a great intellectual,’ said Melanie. ‘You spend most of your
time caught up in your own thoughts, so if you’re bored – it’s because you
can’t concentrate on your thoughts. And the reason you can’t concentrate on
your thoughts is because you’re thinking about Ian.’
‘I am not,’ said Friday.
‘If you’re not, then the frozen water must have caused brain damage,’
said Melanie. ‘Ian is seriously dishy. You would be a fool not to lie around
daydreaming about him.’
Friday would have blushed, but the heated IV fluids and hot blankets
had already given her flushed cheeks so it was hard to tell.
‘I feel like a burrito,’ said Friday.
‘Yum, a burrito,’ said Melanie as she continued to flick through her
magazine. ‘Do you think Interpol will send us somewhere with good
Mexican food next? Does Mexico have a big art crime problem?’
‘I hope so,’ said Friday. ‘At least if I fell in the ocean there, I wouldn’t
get hypothermia.’
‘Oh my gosh!’ said Melanie, suddenly sitting up. She was staring at her
magazine in shock.
‘What?’ said Friday. She wanted to look over Melanie’s shoulder to see
the magazine, but she could barely move, she was so swaddled.
‘Ian!’ said Melanie.
‘What about him?’ said Friday.
‘He’s in this gossip magazine,’ said Melanie. ‘They’ve got a four-page
spread from the Giorgio exhibition in Paris.’
‘Well, he is meant to be investigating the Paris art scene,’ said Friday.
‘But what is he doing?’ said Melanie to herself.
‘I don’t know! You tell me,’ said Friday. ‘What’s in the picture?’
Melanie looked at Friday. Her friend still looked sick. It was days since
she had fallen in the water, but Friday was still frail.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Melanie. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing. A
misunderstanding.’
‘Show me,’ said Friday.
Melanie didn’t want to, but she knew there was no way of avoiding it.
She handed the gossip magazine to Friday. The main picture was of
Giorgio, a celebrity street artist who had made a name for himself with
guerrilla art in cities across Europe, but now made a fortune selling
shocking avant-garde art to millionaires with more cash than sense. He was
a striking figure. A tall, olive-skinned man in a bright red suit and black
shirt unbuttoned to the navel. He was so arrogant it was hard to pull her
eyes away from him.
That was until Friday noticed who was in the background. Then she
couldn’t see anything else. It was Ian. Looking impossibly glamorous,
beautiful even, in exactly the opposite way to Giorgio. Ian was blond,
wearing a classic tuxedo and exuding arrogance himself. But the most
shocking thing about the photo was what Ian was doing. He was holding
hands with someone. She couldn’t see who because they were blocked by
Giorgio. But Friday was pretty sure it wasn’t her, because she was in a
hospital bed in Oslo 1500 kilometres away.
‘He’s probably holding the hand of an elderly lady who struggles to
walk because she’s got a poor sense of balance and she left her walking
stick in the taxi,’ said Melanie.
Friday looked at her friend. They both knew she was lying.
‘I have to go to Paris,’ said Friday.
‘Yes,’ agreed Melanie. ‘But your doctor said a week and you’ve got two
days to go. You can’t leave early. Heart arrhythmia is a serious business.’
‘I could fake my death, then sneak out when they took me to the
morgue,’ said Friday.
‘I’m pretty sure a hospital is the worst place to try to fake your death,’
said Melanie. ‘There are lots of people here with advanced degrees in
knowing whether patients are dead or not.’
Suddenly, on the other side of the room, Mrs Philipson’s heart monitor
started emitting a deafening alarm.
‘Mrs Philipson!’ called Friday. ‘Are you okay?’
A team of nurses rushed in with a crash cart. A young doctor followed
close behind barking orders. ‘Prepare the pads, administer ten mils of
epinephrine, start compressions!’
‘She just wants her pudding,’ Friday called over, but the medical staff
ignored her.
‘The patient is in cardiac arrest,’ said the young doctor as he rubbed the
pads of the defibrillator together, ready to apply to the patient’s chest.
‘No!’ cried Friday. ‘That could kill her. Mrs Philipson is just hungry.
She pressed the call button twice and nobody came, so she pulled off her
heart monitor, licked a battery and held it to the sensor.’
The doctor looked up at his patient for the first time. The elderly woman
smiled at him.
‘But she’s got dementia,’ said the doctor.
‘She’s senile, not stupid,’ said Friday. ‘Mrs Philipson was an electrical
engineer when she was younger. She’d know all about how to overload a
circuit.’
‘You’re not in cardiac arrest?’ the doctor asked Mrs Philipson.
The elderly lady kept smiling.
‘Mrs Philipson,’ said one of the nurses. ‘Would you like some dessert?’
The elderly lady nodded enthusiastically.
‘You mustn’t fake cardiac events,’ scolded the young doctor. ‘Haven’t
you ever heard the story of the boy who cried wolf.’
‘She’s ninety-four and senile,’ said Friday. ‘I think she’s more interested
in the story of the old lady who got her pudding.’
‘Is there anything else you’d like?’ the head nurse asked Mrs Philipson
kindly.
Mrs Philipson just smiled blankly.
‘I’d like a copy of the Lancet?’ said Friday. ‘Or perhaps the New
Physicist?’
‘No, they’re too stimulating,’ snapped the head nurse.
‘Surely it’s important to maintain brain activity?’ said Friday.
‘Not in your case,’ said the head nurse. ‘In your case, your brain is too
active. Your body needs a chance to recover from trying to keep up with it.’
‘But I’m needed in Paris,’ pleaded Friday.
‘Paris has endured two world wars, two Napoleons, a Commune,
countless revolutions and Nazi occupation,’ said the head nurse. ‘It can
survive two more days without you.’
‘I like it here,’ said Melanie.
‘You just like it because you can nap as much as you want and they
bring around three meals a day,’ said Friday.
‘I do,’ agreed Melanie. ‘Someone should set up a hotel like this. It’s
very relaxing.’

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It was such a blessed relief to finally be allowed out of hospital. Friday had
developed a great fondness for Norway. It was hard not to, with all the
storybook architecture and stunning natural beauty everywhere you looked.
She was not, however, so in love with the inside of their finest hospital.
As Friday stepped out through the automatic doors and the crisp autumn
air hit her face, she closed her eyes and breathed in a huge lungful of
freedom. That was until a large man slammed into her.
‘Don’t go!’ cried Binky. Binky was Melanie’s brother. His fiancée,
Princess Ingrid, was with him. They had been standing on the footpath
waiting to say goodbye.
Binky wrapped Friday in a big one-armed hug. He could only use one
arm because he had been shot the previous week in a raid at the Global
Seed Vault. Friday could feel wet on her neck and realised Binky must
already be crying.
‘You don’t need me here anymore,’ said Friday, patting his back
soothingly.
‘Only for now,’ said Binky. ‘You know it’s only a matter of time before
I get myself in a pickle again.’
‘You need to learn to unpickle yourself, Binky,’ said Friday.
‘Last time I tried doing that I got attacked by an imaginary polar bear,’
said Binky.
‘Ingrid will look after you,’ said Melanie, trying to gently detach her
brother from her friend.
 ‘I don’t want you to go either,’ wailed Binky, suddenly letting go of
Friday and grabbing Melanie instead. ‘I’m going to be so lonely.’
‘Binky, you are going to live in a palace with dozens of staff,’ said
Friday.
‘And you have your job in the army,’ said Melanie. ‘And you’ve got
your wedding to plan. You’re going to be too busy to miss us.’
‘We really would like it if you stayed,’ said Ingrid. ‘I’m sure we could
find you a job, investigating crime or researching at the university.’
‘Bernie is expecting us in Paris,’ said Friday.
‘She’s very keen to get there because Ian has been holding hands with
someone else,’ explained Melanie.
‘Already!’ said Binky. ‘I’m very fond of Wainscott. He’s just the sort of
fellow you want on your side when you’ve been shot in a seed vault siege
and people are trying to kidnap your girlfriend, but moving on so quickly –
that seems a bit caddish.’ A thought occurred to Binky. ‘I say, do you want
me to come with you and have a stern word with him for you?’
‘You’re just trying to get out of dinner with Great Aunt Helga tomorrow
night, aren’t you?’ said Ingrid.
‘She’s a duchess,’ said Binky. ‘I’m scared of duchesses.’
‘But you’re not scared of princesses,’ said Ingrid. ‘You’re not scared of
me.’
‘I was scared when I met you,’ said Binky. ‘But not because you were a
princess. I didn’t know that. I was scared of you because you were so
beautiful.’
Ingrid stretched up on tiptoes and gave Binky a kiss, because it was a
lovely compliment. When Binky had met her, Ingrid had been an awkward
teenager, wearing intentionally ugly glasses and hiding her natural hair
colour with cheap supermarket hair dye. The fact that Binky had not noticed
was one of his many endearing features.
‘Um,’ said Friday. She found it embarrassing enough when she kissed
someone. Watching other people kiss was even worse. ‘Perhaps I’d better
get in the car. It’s a bit nippy out here.’
‘Oh yes, of course,’ said Ingrid, releasing Binky. ‘It’s a bad look,
detaining a hypothermia patient on a cold sidewalk.’
‘Bernie wanted us to give you this,’ said Binky. He handed Friday a
cardboard satchel bulging at the seams. The only thing stopping the
paperwork from exploding out were two large elastic bands wrapped around
the outside and straining to contain whatever information was inside.
‘What is it?’ asked Friday.
‘The case notes, apparently,’ said Binky. ‘The nurse wouldn’t let us give
them to you while you were still in hospital. I thought it would be all right
to give them to you here on the footpath.’ Binky glanced up at the building.
‘You don’t think she’s watching do you? I’d hate to get in trouble with her.’
‘She may be in charge in her ward,’ said Princess Ingrid. ‘But I’m pretty
sure I outrank her down here on the street.’ Sometimes Ingrid had flashes of
naked power that reminded Friday she was more than just the nice teenager
who moved in next door to them at Highcrest Academy. Ingrid may only be
five foot three, but when she glared at someone with full regal hauteur she
could be quite scary.
After several more hugs and promising to come back for the wedding,
Friday and Melanie finally slid into the back seat of the chauffer-driven car
Ingrid had arranged for them.
Holding the satchel of paperwork on her lap gave Friday an unexpected
sense of pure joy. It made her heart warm in a way all the heated IV drips
and oven-warmed blankets never could. Her mind was like a racehorse
standing in the starting gate, ready to take off as soon as the starter’s pistol
fired. That file contained all her favourite things – facts, science, mystery
and a sense of purpose. She didn’t realise how much she had missed it all.
‘You can open it, you know,’ said Melanie.
‘I’m savouring the moment,’ said Friday.
‘Are you sure you’re not just putting it off?’ said Melanie. ‘Perhaps
because you don’t think you’ll be able to solve this one?’
Friday glanced over. She knew from the smile on Melanie’s face her
friend was teasing.
‘Oh please,’ said Friday. ‘The harder it is, the more fun it is.’
She tugged off the elastic band and let the contents spill out. There were
several folders. These were case notes on the allegations, the individuals
involved and the location – all compiled by an Interpol analyst, Agent
Okeke, who would be meeting them at the airport. There was also a big,
thick textbook about Leonardo da Vinci. Friday sighed with contentment.
‘This is like the best birthday present ever,’ she said. ‘I won’t have to read
one of the dreadful novels they sell at the airport.’
‘I like the dreadful novels they sell at airports,’ protested Melanie.
 ‘So do I,’ said Friday. ‘But this is even better.’
Friday set the case notes in order and started working her way through
them methodically. She barely registered the Norwegian countryside
zipping by en route to the airport, she was totally absorbed throughout the
wait to check in their luggage and she didn’t even notice as Melanie
ushered her into the lounge and ordered hot chocolates. She was too busy
reading. It wasn’t until they were actually on the plane and it had taken off
that Friday finally looked up.
‘It’s entirely possible,’ she announced. Friday seemed to astonish herself
with this conclusion.
‘Sorry, what are we talking about?’ said Melanie.
‘That the Mona Lisa is fake,’ said Friday.
‘It is?’ asked Melanie.
‘Well, it’s possible it might not be as well,’ conceded Friday. She was
looking at the case notes and distracting herself again. ‘Both possibilities
are, well . . . possible. It’s Schrödinger’s Mona Lisa.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Melanie. ‘Are you sure you didn’t get a head injury as
well as hypothermia? You’re not making any sense. Although the doctors
did say that disordered thinking was a symptom of hypothermia. So perhaps
you’re just suffering after-effects of that.’
‘No, Schrödinger was a scientist who came up with a thought
experiment,’ explained Friday. ‘If you put a cat in a box and seal the box,
you have no way of knowing whether the cat inside is alive or dead. So it is
both alive and dead.’
‘No, it’s not,’ said Melanie. ‘It’s one or the other. Probably dead if the
box was airtight.’
‘But you can’t know that,’ said Friday. ‘So, in terms of scientific results,
it is both alive and dead.’
‘That makes no sense,’ said Melanie.
‘Yes, it does. It’s like a mathematical equation . . .’ began Friday.
‘Putting a cat in a box is nothing at all like a mathematical equation,’
said Melanie.
‘He didn’t actually put a cat in a box, it’s a thought experiment,’ said
Friday.
‘Thinking about putting cats in boxes isn’t much better,’ said Melanie.
‘This Schrödinger should be ashamed of himself.’
 ‘It’s just a metaphor to explain the idea of two possibilities existing at
the same time,’ said Friday. ‘He was trying to ridicule the Copenhagen
Interpretation of quantum mechanics.’
‘It would be much better to just say two possibilities existing at the
same time,’ said Melanie. ‘That’s not such a hard concept. But once you
start thinking about a poor cat dying alone in a box, that’s very upsetting.
Who wants to think about science then?’
Now Friday was confused. ‘I just wanted to say that the Mona Lisa
being a forgery and not being a forgery are both possible. Therefore, both
possibilities exist simultaneously.’
Melanie sighed. ‘I know you think that makes sense in terms of
science,’ she said. ‘But sometimes science becomes so far removed from
actual reality that it goes beyond not making sense and becomes very silly
indeed.’
‘All I’m saying is that the man who stole the Mona Lisa, Vincenzo
Peruggia, had it hidden in his apartment for two years,’ explained Friday.
‘That was enough time to copy it. He was a qualified art restorer, so he had
the skill and knowledge to forge it. He hated that the original was in Paris,
so he had the motive to forge it. Therefore, it is entirely possible that the
Mona Lisa is a forgery.’
‘Is that what you believe?’ asked Melanie.
‘When you’re investigating a crime, it’s always a mistake to be
distracted by what you believe,’ said Friday. ‘It’s best to believe nothing and
focus on what you know.’
‘Surely there is no-one good enough to copy Leonardo da Vinci,’ said
Melanie. ‘Isn’t the whole point that he was a genius, unparalleled in
history.’
‘But the thing about really good art forgers is,’ said Friday, ‘no-one
knows how good their work is because no-one realises that they are looking
at a forgery.’
‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’ said Melanie.
‘This mystery has everything,’ said Friday. ‘There are so many avenues
to investigate. Just imagine – if the painting hanging in the Louvre is a fake,
then where is the original?’
‘Do you think one of Peruggia’s distant aunts has it hanging up in her
bathroom right now?’ asked Melanie.
 ‘It would have to be his distant niece,’ said Friday. ‘It all happened over
a hundred years ago. No-one alive at the time is alive now.’
‘It makes you wonder,’ said Melanie. ‘Does it really matter? If no-one
can tell the difference, does it matter whether or not it’s the original?’
‘Ooh,’ said Friday. She was intrigued by this metaphysical idea. ‘That’s
very immoral. But entirely true. Ethics aren’t my strong point.’
‘No, I can tell by your attitude to dead cats,’ said Melanie.
‘I need to know more about Leonardo da Vinci,’ said Friday as she
pulled out the massive book that was part of the case file.
‘It’s rare to find something you don’t know about,’ said Melanie.
‘That’s not true,’ said Friday. ‘I don’t know about lots of things . . . um
. . .’
‘Sport,’ said Melanie.
‘Yes,’ agreed Friday. ‘But that doesn’t matter.’
‘Empathy,’ said Melanie.
‘Well, that’s not really fair,’ said Friday. ‘I know about empathy. I’m
just not very good at it.’
‘Celebrity gossip and pop culture,’ added Melanie.
‘No, actually, I do now,’ said Friday. She seemed a little sad to be
making the statement. ‘All those magazines you read to me in hospital. I
learned things I never wanted to know. I’m pretty sure that quiz to
determine the colour of my aura was not a scientifically valid research tool.’
‘It said you were brown,’ said Melanie. ‘Sounds accurate to me.’
Friday opened her book and started reading, but she didn’t get beyond
the title page before she was interrupted by yelling.
‘This is an outrage!’ yelled a man. ‘I demand to speak to the captain.’
‘What’s going on?’ asked Friday.
‘I don’t know,’ said Melanie.
‘Let’s investigate,’ said Friday, slipping out of her seatbelt.
‘Only a month ago you swore off investigating crime for good,’ Melanie
reminded her.
‘There’s nothing like a near-death experience in the Arctic and a week
of utter boredom in a hospital to make you reprioritise your life,’ said
Friday.

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‘This is an outrage, it’s a disgrace, a debacle!’ yelled a middle-aged man
two rows in front of them.
‘Mr Lavigne, calm down,’ urged the flight attendant.
‘I will not calm down,’ yelled Mr Lavigne. ‘You have lost my wife!’
‘Can I help?’ asked Friday. ‘I’m an investigator with Interpol.’
The man looked at Friday like she had just claimed to be Santa Claus.
‘You’re a child!’ he exclaimed in disgust.
‘I’m a teenager,’ said Friday. ‘We have better eyesight, concentration
and short term memory than middle-aged people.’
‘This isn’t a parlour game for bored teenagers,’ yelled Mr Lavigne. ‘My
wife has been abducted. And they do nothing!’
‘Sir, your wife can’t have been abducted,’ said the flight attendant.
‘We’re seven thousand metres in the air.’
‘Someone must have grabbed her and leapt out with a parachute,’
declared Mr Lavigne. ‘And none of you even noticed.’
‘Apparently you didn’t notice either,’ said Melanie.
‘It’s impossible for someone to parachute off an airplane at this height
and velocity,’ said Friday. ‘Well . . . it’s impossible if they want to survive.’
‘Friday, stop talking about dead things,’ pleaded Melanie. ‘You’ll upset
people.’
‘But that can’t have happened anyway,’ said Friday. ‘You can’t open a
door on an airplane at this altitude without everyone noticing. The cabin
would depressurize.’
‘In layman’s terms,’ coaxed Melanie.
 ‘Everything not attached to the interior of the plane would be sucked
out the door by the difference in air pressure,’ said Friday.
‘I know I was asleep,’ said Melanie. ‘But even I couldn’t have missed
that.’
‘Then where is she?’ demanded Mr Lavigne. ‘What if she’s been
murdered and her body is hidden somewhere on the plane?’
‘Are you sure she’s not in the bathroom?’ asked Friday. ‘I know it
sounds obvious, but it is amazing how often upset people miss the obvious.’
‘All the bathrooms have been searched,’ said the flight attendant. ‘The
below-deck area, the storage areas. Anywhere she could possibly be hiding
has been searched.’
‘My wife would not hide from me!’ shouted Mr Lavigne.
‘Sir, please, you’re disturbing the other passengers,’ said the flight
attendant.
Friday looked about. Everyone in the cabin was watching them.
‘I don’t think they mind,’ said Melanie. ‘This is much more entertaining
that anything on the in-flight TV.’
‘Why don’t you take us through what happened?’ suggested Friday.
‘There is nothing to tell,’ snapped Mr Lavigne. ‘I turn my eyes away for
one moment and they lose my wife.’
The flight attendant didn’t even bother responding. She just rolled her
eyes.
‘Okay,’ said Friday. ‘Let’s break that down. What were you doing when
you turned your eyes away for one moment?’
‘So now it’s my fault, is it?’ demanded Mr Lavigne.
‘I don’t know yet,’ said Friday. ‘That’s why I’m asking questions not
making irrational accusations.’
‘Burn,’ said Melanie. ‘You see, she burned you there. Because that’s
what you’re doing – making irrational accusations.’
‘Yes, thank you, Melanie,’ said Friday. ‘I think we all know that.’
‘I just think we should acknowledge that, while losing your wife is bad,’
said Melanie, ‘yelling at a flight attendant is also bad, because being a flight
attendant is one of the most horrible jobs in the world. You have to pretend
to be nice to people while wearing support stockings and handing out
revolting food.’
The flight attendant didn’t nod, but they could tell from the deep
sadness in her eyes this was the truth.
 ‘We got on the plane through the back door. My wife booked the flight
at the last minute so we got dreadful seats back here,’ said Mr Lavigne, who
apparently could still be angry with his wife even while she was missing. ‘I
was on the phone in a meeting. I’m selling a commercial holding in Milan. I
had to finalise the deal before the plane took off and I lost reception.’
‘You’re meant to put your phone in flight mode before we start taxiing,’
muttered the flight attendant.
‘No-one believes that rubbish,’ said Mr Lavigne.
‘When did you see Mrs Lavigne last?’ asked Friday.
‘She interrupted to tell me she was going to the bathroom,’ said Mr
Lavigne. ‘The one down there.’ He pointed to the front of the plane.
‘Your wife told you she was going to use the toilet at the front of the
plane and you haven’t seen her since?’ asked Friday.
‘Yes,’ snapped Mr Lavigne. ‘That’s what I just said.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Friday, turning to the front of the plane.
‘What?!’ demanded Mr Lavigne.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Friday. ‘I’m afraid your wife has left. She’s
probably on her way to her lawyer’s office right now to begin divorce
paperwork.’
‘What?’ said the man. ‘She got on the plane.’
‘Yes,’ said Friday. ‘That is interesting. She evidently wanted a three-
hour window.’
‘What are you talking about?’ demanded the man.
‘This is a ninety-minute flight,’ said Friday. ‘That means that the
minimum amount of time it will take you to get back to Oslo is three hours,
probably much longer because you’ll have to wait a while for a return
flight. Also, you will probably have to talk to the police about the
disturbance you’ve caused on this flight.’ Friday turned to the flight
attendant. ‘Are you filing a complaint about his behaviour?’
‘Definitely,’ said the flight attendant. ‘The ground crew have already
been informed. Police will be waiting for him at the gate.’
‘You can’t do that!’ snapped Mr Lavigne. ‘I’m the victim here.’
‘Yelling on airplanes is frowned upon,’ said Melanie. Her father owned
an airline so she knew all about such things. ‘It makes everyone very
anxious. Think of all the passengers who can’t speak English. They’ve got
no idea what you’re yelling about.’
 ‘So, by the time you settle all that, get released from custody and
manage to fly back – on another airline because this airline will probably
never fly you again,’ said Friday.
The flight attendant nodded.
‘Your wife could be anywhere, literally anywhere, in the world,’
continued Friday. ‘You lost her at an airport, which is the worst place to
lose someone if you want to follow them. She could be en route to Fiji to
sip cocktails, or Borneo to explore the rainforest or Venezuela to observe
the Catatumbo storm system. I know that’s where I’d go. I’ve always
wanted to see it. You know they have electrical storms on about a hundred
and fifty nights of the year.’
‘Lovely,’ said Melanie. ‘Like a free fireworks show.’
‘But how did she get off a moving airplane?’ demanded Mr Lavigne.
‘You just said she can’t have parachuted off and survived.’ A dreadful
thought occurred to him. ‘Do you think she didn’t survive?’
‘I’m sure she’s very much alive and well,’ said Friday. ‘You see, this
plane is an Airbus A320.’ She smiled as if this fact proved her point.
‘So what?’ asked Mr Lavigne.
‘An Airbus A320 only has two toilets, and they’re both at the rear of the
plane,’ said Friday, pointing out the location. ‘It’s clearly indicated by the
illuminated pictographs on the ceiling by the cockpit. You’d have to be
wildly unobservant – perhaps because you were constantly distracted by a
mobile phone – not to notice that.’
‘What are you saying?’ asked Mr Lavigne.
‘When your wife said she was going to the toilet at the front, she was
lying,’ explained Friday. ‘The front and rear doors of the plane were still
open, because passengers were still boarding there. It would have been so
simple for Mrs Lavigne to come in the back door with you, walk straight
down the aisle and leave through the front door before it closed.’
‘Preposterous,’ said the man.
‘What does your wife look like?’ asked Friday.
‘Five foot four, dark hair,’ said the man.
Friday turned to the passengers at the front of the plane. ‘Did anyone
notice a short, dark-haired woman push past them as they were boarding?’
The passengers looked confused.
‘Was your wife the same age as you?’ asked Friday.
‘Yes, forty-six. Why?’ asked the man.
 ‘People never notice middle-aged women,’ said Friday. ‘It’s like
wearing an invisibility cloak.’
‘A passenger did get off at the front,’ said another flight attendant, who
had been attending to the business-class passengers at the front of the plane.
‘I remember, because she looked me in the eyes. Passengers don’t often do
that. She smiled the loveliest smile and told me to have a nice day.’
‘Was she short, middle-aged and dark-haired?’ asked Friday.
‘Yes,’ said the flight attendant.
‘There you go,’ said Friday. ‘Mystery solved.’
‘No,’ said Mr Lavigne. He seemed to be going into shock.
‘Oh yes,’ said Friday. ‘I’m afraid your wife ran away. There are two
ways of running away from someone. You run. Or you stand still while they
run – or in this case fly. She chose a very energy-efficient way of gaining
her freedom.’
‘We have to go back,’ muttered Mr Lavigne.
‘We can’t turn the plane around, sir,’ said the flight attendant.
‘But I need to find her,’ pleaded Mr Lavigne.
‘Good luck,’ said Friday. ‘If she is clever enough to stage this, I doubt
you will. Now we’ve resolved that, would you mind not yelling anymore? I
need to read a book.’

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The flight from Oslo to Paris only took ninety minutes, but there is
something about being jammed in a confined space with two hundred
strangers while hurtling through the air and eating unconscionably bad food
that makes you always feel slightly grotty when you get off. Friday and
Melanie trudged with their hand luggage towards the baggage claim. In
Friday’s case, her hand luggage was all her luggage (having lost her
suitcase on the way to Norway, she had barely any personal items now) but
Melanie had used every ounce of her checkable baggage allotment.
Airports are designed to be calming, or at least emotionally deadening.
The soft, inoffensive music. The cool tile floor. The long wide corridors to
traverse. The whole thing encourages quietness. People keep their voices
down in airports if for no other reason than because they sense anything
they say loudly will bounce of all the hard surfaces. It’s classic behavioural
control through architecture. If everyone speaks softly, everyone stays calm.
But this was not the case today. As Friday and Melanie came down the
escalators into the baggage collection area, there was a disturbance taking
place.
People weren’t exactly screaming in panic, but there were definite yelps
of alarm and raised voices of parents urging their children to stay back. It
was hard to see what was going on because there were so many people and
luggage carts, but Friday and Melanie could hear a distinct voice yelling
over the rest of the noise.
‘Hands where we can see them!’ bellowed a man. ‘Hands where we can
see them!’
 From their raised position on the descending escalator, Friday and
Melanie could see that heavily armed police officers in fatigues and body
armour had pinned someone to the ground. The person held under the
officers’ knees looked small, much smaller than the police officers. Friday
realised the person they were restraining was a woman. She was wearing a
grey pants suit, so her gender was not immediately apparent, but she had a
large swathe of black hair that indicated she was female. Two other officers
stood back with their weapons trained on her.
‘Get off me!’ demanded the woman. She was straining but she couldn’t
move with three much larger men pinning her to the ground.
‘Don’t move!’ ordered the chief officer.
‘I’m a law enforcement officer,’ said the woman. ‘I have ID.’
‘DON’T MOVE!’ he screamed even louder. She evidently had moved.
People in the crowd screamed as the two officers who were still standing
lunged forward with guns raised.
‘I was just going to show you my ID,’ said the woman.
‘Take her gun,’ the chief barked at one of his men.
‘Please don’t take my gun,’ said the woman. ‘I am an Interpol officer. I
need it for work.’
Friday’s feet were drawing her towards the fray.
‘We should stay back,’ said Melanie, grabbing her by the arm. ‘You just
got out of hospital.’
But Friday noticed something abandoned on the ground near the melee.
A clipboard with the words ‘FRIDAY BARNES and MELANIE PELLY’
written in big bold type.
‘I think she’s here for us,’ said Friday. She stepped forward and took out
the Interpol ID that had been inside her satchel. ‘Excuse me, we’re with
Interpol. We are expecting Agent Okeke to meet us.’
‘That’s me,’ said the woman. Her voice was very muffled, as it came
from beneath the scrum of officers. ‘I am Agent Okeke.’
‘Hello,’ said Friday.
‘Nice to meet you,’ said Melanie, bending over to try to make eye
contact with Agent Okeke, whose face was now being squashed into the
ground. ‘Sorry, you don’t seem to be having a good day.’
The chief inspected Friday and Melanie’s IDs. He looked like he wanted
to tear them up.
‘Since when did Interpol start recruiting teenagers?’ he asked snidely.
 ‘Since adult behaviour became so ridiculous,’ suggested Friday, looking
from him to her colleague restrained on the ground.
The chief glowered at her, then spoke into a walkie talkie that was
clipped to his shoulder strap. ‘I need a background check on two alleged
Interpol analysts named . . . Friday Barnes and Melanie Pelly.’
‘She’s got one too,’ said one of the officers kneeling on Agent Okeke as
he went through her pockets. He handed an Interpol identity wallet to his
superior.
The chief’s expression barely changed. But there was the slightest
slump of his shoulders, characteristic of someone who realises they have
just made a terrible mistake that means they will have to do a lot of
paperwork.
‘They both check out, chief,’ came a voice over the walkie talkie,
‘Freitag, alias Friday, Barnes and Melanie Pelly are with Interpol and it was
flagged on our database that they would be passing through the airport
today. They were to be met by armed agent Briana Okeke.’
‘Let her up,’ said the chief. ‘Weapons down.’
The officers released Agent Okeke. She got to her feet and brushed off
her clothes. Airport floors aren’t terribly clean. No-one would choose to lie
on one. Certainly no-one would choose to lie on one while several great big
men wearing body armour kneeled on her.
Now she was standing up, they could see that Agent Okeke was very
slightly built and not terribly tall. She was also of African descent, so she
stood out in contrast against the five men who had detained her. But her
most distinguishing feature was her rage. It was evidently towering. She
glared hard at the chief.
‘I know this is because I am black,’ said Agent Okeke.
‘No, it is because you are carrying a gun in an airport,’ said the chief. ‘A
security guard noticed your weapon and sounded the alert. To carry a
weapon in an airport in France, you must wear appropriate identification.’
‘Like this one,’ said Agent Okeke, holding up another Interpol ID badge
that had been hanging on a lanyard around her neck the whole time.
‘Apparently a mistake was made,’ said the chief.
‘You saw the gun, you saw my skin colour and you assumed I was a
terrorist,’ said Agent Okeke. ‘That is racial profiling. That is racist.’
The chief shrugged. ‘Not at all. In France we are a multicultural
country. We treat all gun-wielding women at the airport equally.’
 ‘I’m going to report you,’ said Agent Okeke.
‘Fine,’ said the chief. ‘I was just doing my job. The people of France
want to be kept safe.’
‘Who keeps them safe from you?’ asked Melanie.
The chief turned and glared at her. But Melanie had asked her question
so nicely, as if she was genuinely curious, so there was no way he could
take exception.
‘Anyone who brings a handgun into the airport is not safe from me,’
said the chief.
He slouched off with his men.
Agent Okeke glared at him. She looked like she wanted to run after him
and punch him in the back of the head.
‘Are you all right?’ said Friday.
‘Yes,’ said Agent Okeke. She bent to pick up her clipboard. ‘This sort of
thing happens all the time.’
‘Really?’ said Melanie. ‘That must be wearisome. And so expensive for
your dry-cleaning bill.’
‘Come with me,’ said Agent Okeke, snapping into business mode. She
turned and started striding towards the exit.
‘Um . . . my bags,’ said Melanie, not moving.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Agent Okeke. ‘You had better get those.’ She was clearly
more shaken up than she wanted to let on.

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Once they were in the car, Agent Okeke had apparently decided to pretend
that she hadn’t just been assaulted by a squad of heavily armed men, and
Friday and Melanie instinctively went along with this.
‘Were you able to read the briefing papers on the plane?’ asked Agent
Okeke.
‘Yes,’ said Friday. ‘But I have a few questions.’
‘Really?’ said Agent Okeke. ‘I thought my information was exhaustive.’
‘Yes, the information about the crime is incredibly detailed,’ agreed
Friday. ‘But I don’t understand the motive.’
‘Italian nationalism,’ said Agent Okeke. ‘Vincenzo Peruggia stole the
Mona Lisa because he wanted to return it to Italy. Because he was an idiot.
He thought Napoleon had looted it from Italy.’
‘He hadn’t?’ asked Melanie.
‘No,’ said Agent Okeke. ‘Da Vinci gave the King of France the Mona
Lisa as a gift.’
‘Yes, I get the motive for the original crime,’ said Friday. ‘I don’t get the
motive for the investigation. Why now? Rumours have swirled about the
Mona Lisa’s theft for years.’
‘I wasn’t authorised to brief you on that aspect of the investigation,’ said
Agent Okeke.
‘Why not?’ asked Friday.
‘I wasn’t authorised to brief you on that either,’ said Agent Okeke.
‘But I can’t investigate without all the information,’ said Friday.
 ‘Fine,’ said Agent Okeke. ‘I’ll be sure to report that you feel incapable
of doing your job.’
‘That’s not what I meant,’ said Friday.
‘Look,’ said Agent Okeke, slamming on the brakes and glaring at Friday
even though they were in the middle of a motorway and stopping suddenly
was incredibly dangerous. ‘I didn’t get a master’s degree in criminology
and graduate top of my class at L’École Nationale de la Police to babysit a
couple of kids. This mission . . .’ She pointed at Friday and Melanie to
make it clear they were her mission. ‘. . . this is an insult to me
professionally. Getting you two sacked would make my day.’
‘Okay,’ said Friday. Obviously this was not okay, but Friday’s main
concern was not antagonising the very angry, very upset, lady with the gun.
‘Would you like to have a good cry?’ asked Melanie. ‘I find that can be
very nice when I’m feeling upset. Or perhaps a lovely nap.’
Agent Okeke just growled in response. She turned back to look at the
road, put the car in gear and started driving again. They drove in silence for
a few minutes before Friday found the courage to ask, ‘Um . . . so are you
taking us to see Uncle Bernie?’
‘Inspector Barnes?’ asked Agent Okeke.
‘Oooh, he’s an inspector now,’ said Melanie. ‘That’s lovely. He deserves
to be promoted.’
‘He’s not in Paris,’ said Agent Okeke. ‘He’s in Leipzig, Germany.’
‘Why?’ said Friday.
‘Because the director of the Louvre won’t let us test the chemical
composition of the painting,’ said Agent Okeke. ‘If he did, we could all
move on with our lives. The authenticity of the Mona Lisa would be
confirmed in twenty-four hours. But no – heaven forbid someone in the arts
community be reasonable.’
‘To test it you would need to take a sample,’ said Friday.
‘You mean, actually cut a bit out of the Mona Lisa?’ asked Melanie.
‘Only a little bit!’ argued Agent Okeke. ‘But the director refuses to
allow it. And by refuses, I mean he practically has a brain aneurism at the
suggestion. So now we all have to carry out this ridiculous investigation.’
‘So where are we going?’ asked Melanie. ‘Head office to meet with the
governor?’
Agent Okeke made a scoffing noise. ‘You’re not high level enough to
meet with her.’
 ‘But we did meet with her – three weeks ago in Florence,’ said Friday.
‘You did?!’ Agent Okeke looked even angrier. ‘I’ve been with the
organisation for four months and I’ve never met with her. She doesn’t meet
with operatives under normal circumstances. She certainly won’t meet with
you now. It would compromise your cover IDs.’
‘Cover?’ said Friday. ‘We’re going undercover?’
‘Yes, that’s the arrangement,’ said Agent Okeke.
‘But we’re not trained to go undercover!’ protested Friday. ‘We don’t
have any skills or know-how.’
‘Pfft,’ said Agent Okeke.
Friday wasn’t sure what this sound was supposed to mean, but she
gathered it was dismissive.
‘You’re going to pose as annoying foreign teenagers,’ said Agent
Okeke. ‘It will be easy for you.’
‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’ said Melanie. ‘Friday is terrible at
lying.’
‘Most people are,’ said Agent Okeke. ‘Just don’t lie. If someone asks
you a question, don’t answer it. Trust me, it’s a lot easier to do than it
sounds. People are surprisingly incurious.’
‘So what are our cover IDs?’ asked Friday.
‘You’re art students,’ said Agent Okeke.
‘But I’m terrible at art!’ protested Friday.
‘That’s not true,’ said Melanie. ‘Remember that time at Highcrest when
you hit your head on a ceiling fan and did a lovely expressionist painting?’
‘I can’t get a head injury every time I need to create something,’ said
Friday.
‘Pah,’ said Agent Okeke. ‘Most modern art is dreadful, so if you’re
dreadful at it, no-one will notice.’
‘That’s a strange attitude for someone who works in the arts and
antiquities unit at Interpol,’ said Friday.
Agent Okeke frowned. ‘I didn’t choose the post. I was loaned out to
Interpol.’
‘From where?’ asked Melanie.
‘The counter-terrorism squad,’ said Agent Okeke.
‘And this wasn’t a change you chose?’ guessed Melanie.
Agent Okeke glowered. ‘Interpol requested experienced investigators. It
was thought that I would benefit with some time away from my unit, while
I do re-retraining to deal with my anger-management issues.’
‘What anger-management issues?’ asked Friday.
‘I punched a fellow officer in the face,’ said Agent Okeke.
‘I can see how that would be an issue,’ said Melanie.
‘Why?’ Friday asked Agent Okeke. ‘Did you punch him, I mean?’
Agent Okeke sighed. ‘We were on a big raid. A terrorist cell had set
themselves up in a terrace house on the outskirts of Paris. There was a lot
going on. Several different agencies with dozens of officers were involved.
The terrorists tried to run for it. They were trying to destroy evidence.
During the commotion, I got arrested.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Melanie.
‘That’s not the bad part,’ said Agent Okeke. She grimaced angrily,
apparently reliving her rage in her own mind. ‘It was eight hours before my
fellow officers realised the mistake. I had to spend eight hours in the cells
with every other miscreant arrested in Paris that night, and let me tell you
they all realised who I was in the first eight seconds.’
‘That sounds unpleasant,’ said Melanie.
‘When there was a shift change the following morning, the mistake was
realised and I was released,’ said Agent Okeke. ‘My colleagues in the
counter-terrorism unit were just coming back in to work, coffees in hand,
having had a good night’s sleep. They got one look at me after a night in the
cells and they laughed. They actually laughed. Even my commanding
officer thought it was funny.’
‘I suppose it is important to maintain your sense of humour in difficult
times,’ said Melanie.
‘He didn’t think it was funny when I punched him,’ said Agent Okeke.
This was the first time they had seen her smile. It was a small smile but she
clearly enjoyed the memory.
‘Oh dear,’ said Melanie.
‘I shattered the bone in his nose,’ said Agent Okeke. ‘He needed plastic
surgery to reconstruct it. He still has to wear a bandage over it on sunny
days to protect the wound.’
‘So were your anger-management issues caused by this incident or
exacerbated by this incident?’ asked Friday.
‘Both,’ said Agent Okeke.
‘Okay,’ said Friday.
 Friday and Melanie decided it was best to let Agent Okeke brood in
silence for the remainder of their drive into the city.

Paris is one of the most beautiful cities in the world. Napoleon III may have
been less successful than his uncle at taking over Europe, but he did do a
fabulous job of rebuilding the capital. Wide boulevards and lovely public
parks are surrounded by elegant nineteenth-century public buildings. But
that’s in the centre of Paris. The rest of the city is a sprawling mass of
suburbs, that looks much like the outskirts of every other major European
city. There are lots of tenement houses, bustling factories and functional
institutions, where real people get on with day-to-day life away from the
tourists.
‘I have enrolled you in the Art Institute du Louvre,’ said Agent Okeke.
‘It is a fine arts college that teaches short courses for students from other
institutions. That’s what you’ll be doing. It’s a six-week holiday program,
run in the winter semester break. You will learn from the great masterpieces
of the Louvre by going to the gallery every day for lectures and to sketch
the artworks.’
‘That sounds like fun,’ said Melanie.
‘But how will that help investigate a forgery that took place one
hundred years ago?’ asked Friday.
‘Because we want eyes on the ground,’ said Agent Okeke. ‘The Louvre
Museum is a revered institution in France. It has great prestige in the art
world, but it is also a financial powerhouse for tourism. Ten million tourists
go to the Louvre every year to see the Mona Lisa. That one painting is more
than a point of French pride. It is a lodestone for our economy. There is a lot
more at play than one thief. There’s politics and power and greed.’
‘But I’m good at solving mysteries,’ said Friday. ‘I can’t help with
politics.’
‘You aren’t here to solve anything,’ said Agent Okeke. ‘You are here to
be a cog.’
‘A cog?’ said Friday.
‘Are you sure you know what that word means?’ asked Melanie.
 ‘I know what a cog is!’ said Agent Okeke. ‘I’m saying that you are a
small part of a much bigger machine. The machine is the investigation. You
must do your job so the machine can work. Your job is to watch and accrue
information.’
‘Okay,’ said Friday. ‘I can do observation. That’s a principal part of
scientific investigation. I know how that works.’
‘We need eyes on all the workings of the gallery,’ continued Agent
Okeke. ‘If this is an attempt to discredit the Mona Lisa’s authenticity, it
could be a trap. We need to be vigilant. Art is all about pranks and irony
now, thanks to that idiot Giorgio.’
‘You think he’s involved?’ asked Friday.
‘It’s just the sort of stupid thing he loves,’ said Agent Okeke.
‘Diminishing the authenticity of a masterpiece revered by the
establishment. It contrasts perfectly with his mission to raise up graffiti to
be regarded as high art.’
‘Really?’ asked Friday. ‘I thought he was just an artistic version of a
socialite. A playboy with pretensions.’
‘Last year he ran Vincent Van Gogh’s painting Sunflowers through a
woodchipper,’ said Agent Okeke.
‘What?!’ exclaimed Melanie.
‘It was a hoax,’ said Agent Okeke. ‘Or as he called it, “a political act of
performance art”. He used a copy. That’s just the type of stunt he loves.
Something that challenges fundamental assumptions about the value of art,
as well as making everyone in the art establishment so horrified they pee
their pants.’
‘So we’re not just keeping an eye on the Mona Lisa,’ said Friday.
‘We’re keeping an eye on the people looking at the Mona Lisa?’
‘Exactly,’ said Agent Okeke. ‘No-one will notice you because you’re
teenagers and no-one likes teenagers.’
‘Hmm,’ said Melanie. ‘You’re very frank, aren’t you?’
‘I speak the truth,’ said Agent Okeke.
‘Yes,’ agreed Melanie. ‘But there are always lots of versions of the
truth. Yours is very angry.’
Agent Okeke glanced in the rear-view mirror. If looks could carry a
handgun, Melanie would have been in a lot of trouble.
‘How do we contact you if we have any information?’ asked Friday.
Agent Okeke sighed. ‘You go to the gift shop and buy a postcard.’
 ‘I’m sorry?’ said Friday.
Agent Okeke sighed even louder. ‘My cover is to work in the gift shop
in the lobby of the Louvre’s main entrance.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Melanie. ‘If arresting terrorists didn’t work out for you, I
can see how customer service is going to be a struggle.’
‘You’ll be okay,’ said Friday. ‘No-one expects French shop assistants to
be nice.’

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The Art Institute du Louvre was not as glamorous as the name suggested.
True, it was just a hundred metres from the famous and beautiful art gallery,
but that one hundred metres held an entire city block of other buildings. It
may as well have been a hundred kilometres. In Paris, the aura of glamour
doesn’t extend far. Breathtakingly beautiful architecture is cheek by jowl
with poorly maintained, graffiti-covered tenements that for some reason
always smell like a public toilet. Agent Okeke dropped them off outside just
such a building.
‘Are you sure this is the right place?’ asked Friday, looking up at the
narrow five-storey building cramped between a souvenir store and a
tobacconist.
‘I thought you were the great detective prodigy,’ said Agent Okeke.
‘Can’t you detect the plaque on the door?’
Behind a tangle of abandoned electric share scooters, there was a very
dirty plaque on the door that was probably brass, but some sort of filth was
spattered across it. It read, ‘Art Institue du Louvre – Student
Accommodation’.
‘I saw the sign,’ said Friday. ‘I just thought it might be wrong.’
‘You aren’t coming in with us?’ asked Melanie.
‘Of course not,’ said Agent Okeke. ‘It would compromise your cover.’
‘I guess we’ll see you at the Louvre then,’ said Friday.
‘Whatever,’ said Agent Okeke. ‘I’m your handler, not your mother.’ She
threw the car in gear and sped away.
 Friday watched the car take the corner too quickly, nearly killing a
tourist on an e-scooter. ‘She’s actually warmer and chattier than my
mother,’ Friday observed.

The inside of the Art Institute building was only moderately less
disappointing than the outside. The lobby was a narrow room, half of which
was taken up by a staircase leading to the dormitories above. The marble
floor was superficially clean, but everything else was old and worn. The
white walls were not as white as they would have been two decades ago
when they were last painted. Tucked in underneath the staircase was a small
porter’s office. The woman who worked there didn’t look like she had ever
walked up the staircase in her life. She was staring at a video on her
computer on her desk. She barely acknowledged Friday and Melanie when
they introduced themselves. She just pointed to the staircase above her head
and said, ‘Fifth floor.’
Friday looked at Melanie’s enormous suitcase. ‘If we grab an end each
and take lots of rest breaks, I think we can make it.’
‘This almost makes me regret packing so many shoes,’ said Melanie.
Ten minutes later, after a great deal of trudging and heavy breathing,
Friday and Melanie finally dragged the suitcase up onto the landing of the
fifth floor. There was only one door. They tried knocking but no-one
responded. They could hear voices from within.
‘Come on, just open the door,’ someone was yelling, but it was muffled
as if it was being yelled from the far end of the apartment.
‘Do they mean us?’ asked Melanie, indicating the door she and Friday
were standing in front of.
Friday shrugged. She tried the door handle. It was unlocked, so they
both entered.
They passed through a short passageway, with a coat rack and
backpacks dumped on the floor, and found themselves in a large open-plan
room with a lounge area on one side and a kitchen on the other. Two
teenage boys were sitting on the enormous L-shaped sofa. One was
studiously drawing on a sketchpad. The other seemed to be napping.
‘Hi,’ said Friday. ‘Are we in the right place?’
 The napping boy opened his eyes. Friday noted that they were dark
brown and very nice to look at. Although the dark rings under his eyes
indicated that he was tired. ‘Have you just come off a double shift making
pizza?’ she asked.
‘What?’ said the boy. He was startled. ‘Do I know you?’
‘Not yet,’ said Friday. ‘But I can deduce many things about you. You’re
wearing a polo shirt that says, Giuseppe’s Pizza, the best pizza in Paris,
which could be merchandise, but it is bright red. That’s not a colour a
fashion-conscious teen would choose to wear voluntarily, so I assume you
work there.’
The boy looked down at his shirt and frowned.
‘And the shirt is faded,’ continued Friday. ‘It’s been washed repeatedly,
which suggests that you are an experienced employee.’
The boy smiled proudly at this.
‘The type of employee a boss would ask to stay on when someone
doesn’t turn up for the morning shift,’ said Friday. ‘Of course, you could be
a delivery person, but the flour stains on your shirt suggest that you’re
actually involved in preparing the pizza.’
The boy hastily tried to brush the flour off his shirt.
‘And your highly developed carpi radialis muscles,’ said Friday,
pointing to his forearms, ‘are consistent with someone who spends a lot of
time kneading dough, which I know, from when my parents forgot to do the
grocery shopping, is surprisingly hard work.’
‘That’s amazing,’ said the boy. ‘That’s exactly what I do. I take the
dough and shape it into pizza bases. Giuseppe is my uncle. He gets me to
stand in the window while I work. The tourists like watching me throw the
pizza bases around. My name is Roberto.’
‘Hi, Roberto,’ said Melanie.
‘Now do Adam,’ Roberto urged Friday, pointing to the serious boy
sitting next to him. ‘Tell us what you can figure out about him.’
‘Deductive reasoning is not a party trick,’ said Friday.
‘It kind of is,’ said Melanie. She plopped down on the couch next to
Roberto, waiting for Friday to perform.
Friday turned to inspect Adam. He glanced up and noticed that the other
three were staring at him.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Adam.
 ‘Go back to your drawing,’ said Roberto. ‘This girl is going to figure
out everything about you just from looking at your clothes.’
Adam looked alarmed by this prospect.
‘Grey sweater, button-down collar, jeans and wire-framed glasses,’
listed Friday. ‘The most distinctive thing about your clothes is they are
ironed. Young people don’t iron. Especially not young art students. You
dress like a law student. Although they don’t iron either.’
‘I get my clothes ironed for me,’ said Melanie.
‘Yes, but if an art student was as rich as you and had a maid who ironed
their clothes,’ said Friday, ‘they would then purposefully crumple their
clothes, so they’d fit in. This level of fastidiousness in someone so young
speaks of a deep-seated psychological need to bring order and control to
their life, and the only people who seek order that much are people who
have never had it. If you really wanted order in your life, you wouldn’t be
an art student, unless you were so talented it was inescapable.’
‘You should mind your own business,’ said Adam.
‘Hostility,’ said Friday. ‘Perhaps that indicates parental issues. Or
perhaps you simply love art, you’re in a flow with your drawing and I’m
irritating you.’
‘She’s got you bang on,’ said Roberto.
Adam just glowered.
‘Are you with the police?’ Roberto asked Friday.
Melanie had just had a sip from her water bottle. Roberto’s uncannily
accurate guess made her inhale the water, which caused a coughing fit.
‘No,’ said Friday. She was startled to have her cover seen through
almost immediately. ‘I’m an art student. I am good at observing things
because I look at things all the time for reasons of art . . . nothing to do with
crime.’
‘Okay,’ said Roberto.
‘I’m Melanie,’ said Melanie. ‘Sorry about Friday. She has very poor
social skills. I think she was dropped on her head as a baby.’
‘She was?’ asked Adam. This made him look up from his drawing,
perhaps to see if Friday had a misshapen head.
‘No, I’m joking,’ said Melanie.
‘Although it is possible,’ said Friday. ‘If you dropped an infant so that
the prefrontal cortex of their brain was permanently injured, that could
affect their lifelong ability to socially interact.’
 ‘Friday, this is an example of you not knowing how to interact
appropriately,’ said Melanie kindly. ‘Too much detail about dropping infants
the first time you meet someone is bad.’
Friday nodded. ‘Noted. I should have been able to deduce that. I will
endeavour to remember.’
‘Adam isn’t great with social skills either,’ said Roberto. ‘But he won
the Prix de la Jeune Peinture Belge last year so he’s a big deal. It’s the most
prestigious youth art prize in Europe.’
‘Could you stop telling people that,’ said Adam.
Roberto rolled his eyes. ‘They can figure it out for themselves just by
googling you. It’s rude to act like you aren’t who you are just to maintain a
secret identity.’
‘Whatever,’ said Adam.
‘He’s just grumpy because the wifi is terrible here and he can’t
FaceTime his girlfriend,’ said Roberto.
‘I am not,’ said Adam. ‘I don’t have a girlfriend.’
Roberto had already closed his eyes. ‘Sorry, I mean your mother,’ he
said. ‘I know you can’t bear to go a day without hearing her voice.’
Adam picked up a pillow and smashed it into Roberto’s face. Roberto
just laughed.
‘You can’t stay in there forever,’ a woman yelled from another room.
Friday turned to the sound. On the far side of the common room there was a
doorway leading to the bedrooms.
‘Go away!’ called another, younger voice.
‘What’s going on?’ Friday asked the boys.
‘The new girl locked herself in,’ said Adam, without even looking up
from his sketchpad.
‘Really? That sounds very extreme,’ said Melanie. ‘Do tell.’
Roberto opened his eyes again. ‘She was really unhappy with her dad
when he dropped her off.’
‘He’s not going to be winning “father of the year” any time soon, that’s
for sure,’ muttered Adam.
‘What did he do?’ asked Friday. She perched on the edge of the coffee
table. She was reluctant to sit on the sofa. It looked like it would be hard to
get back out of it once you were down.
‘She thought she was coming to Paris to stay with him for the winter
holiday,’ said Roberto. ‘But he enrolled her here without telling her. They
came straight from the airport. She thought she was going to be staying at
his house.’
‘He said he has to work,’ said Adam. ‘And that she’ll enjoy it more here
with people her own age.’
‘Yes, but that’s not the point, is it,’ said Melanie. ‘It’s the rejection that
stings.’
Friday had had many similar experiences with her own parents.
‘I know I’m not great at social skills,’ said Friday. ‘But wouldn’t it be
best just to leave her alone? Let her have some quite time in her room?’
‘Oh, she hasn’t locked herself in her room,’ said Roberto. ‘She’s locked
herself in the bathroom.’
‘And there’s only one bathroom,’ added Adam. ‘We all share it.’
‘Five people and only one bathroom?’ asked Melanie. Melanie came
from an incredibly wealthy family, and they had gone to a very prestigious
school. Both places had high bathroom to people ratios.
‘Six people and one bathroom,’ said Roberto. ‘The residential tutor
shares our apartment too.’
‘Friday, you’ve got to do something to get her out of there,’ said
Melanie. ‘I drank three bottles of water on the flight to keep my skin
hydrated. My bladder can only hold it in for so long.’
Friday stood up wearily.
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Adam. ‘Negotiate the bathroom’s
release?’
‘Oh no,’ said Melanie. ‘Friday is terrible at persuading people. But she
is good at picking locks.’
‘Cool,’ said Roberto. ‘I really need a shower. Making pizza is sweaty
business.’
‘We know,’ said Adam. ‘We can smell you.’
‘You don’t get the sweat in the actual pizza do you?’ asked Melanie.
‘Of course,’ said Roberto with a wink. ‘That’s the secret ingredient that
makes Giuseppe’s pizza the best in Paris.’
‘Gross,’ said Adam.
‘You’d better do something, Friday,’ urged Melanie.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Friday.

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When Friday stepped into the corridor, she found there were four rooms
leading off on one side. A pretty blonde woman in her early twenties was
leaning against the door of the first room.
‘Hi,’ said Friday. ‘Can I help?’
‘Oh, hello,’ said the woman. She looked a little embarrassed. ‘You must
be Friday or Melanie.’
‘Friday,’ said Friday.
‘I’m Kate,’ she said. ‘I’m your residential tutor. It’s my job to make sure
you don’t starve, don’t stay out past curfew and get to your lessons without
getting lost.’
As Friday came nearer, she could hear sobbing on the other side of the
door.
‘Sorry about this,’ said Kate. ‘I’m supposed to be welcoming you and
showing you the ropes, but this has been a bit of a hiccup. Sophia isn’t too
happy to be here.’
‘Just go away!’ called the muffled voice from inside.
‘Your roommates are here,’ Kate yelled through the door. She was
trying to sound cheerful. ‘Don’t you want to come out and meet them?’
‘No!’ called Sophia. ‘Tell them to go away.’
Melanie had come over to see what was happening.
‘We’d quite like to use the bathroom,’ Melanie called through the door.
‘I don’t care!’ wailed Sophia.
‘Have you tried ringing her father?’ Friday whispered to Kate, trying to
speak at a volume that Sophia couldn’t hear through the door.
‘I did,’ Kate whispered in reply. ‘He’s turned his phone off.’
 ‘I guess that’s one way to delegate childcare,’ said Friday.
‘It’s not uncommon to have new students cry and be upset because
they’re homesick,’ said Kate. ‘But we’ve never had anyone lock themselves
in before. I wasn’t trained on how to deal with this.’
‘You don’t have a master key?’ asked Friday.
‘No,’ said Kate. ‘The porter is supposed to have one, but she lost it.’
‘How did she lose it?’ asked Friday.
‘I didn’t like to ask follow up questions,’ said Kate. ‘The porter scares
me. She refuses to speak anything but French. And even when you speak
French to her, she acts like you’re so horrible at it that she can’t understand
you.’
‘Come on, Friday,’ said Melanie. ‘This can’t be too hard for you. You
break into rooms all the time.’
‘If you could get the door open that would be wonderful,’ said Kate. ‘I
tried calling a locksmith, but when he realised he’d have to carry all his
equipment up five flights of stairs, he was going to charge an extra hundred
euros.’
‘Let’s see,’ said Friday. She bent over to look at the lock, then closely
inspected the entire doorframe and finally rapped her knuckles on the door.
‘Well, it’s a solid timber door, set into a steel frame and with a French-made
Dom RS Sigma lock.’
‘And what does that mean for those of us who aren’t familiar with
European lock manufacturers?’ asked Melanie.
‘It depends on what you want to do,’ said Friday. ‘There are lots of
different ways you can break through a lock. You could try kicking the door
in.’
‘That sounds awfully athletic,’ said Melanie.
‘Yes,’ agreed Friday. ‘And I don’t think it would work here. Usually,
when people kick doors in, they’re actually kicking the doorframe out. The
timber of the doorframe is the weakest part of the lock. But in this instance,
the doorframe is made of steel, so you’d break your ankle before you broke
that.’
‘It would not be fun getting up and down the five flights of stairs with a
broken ankle,’ said Melanie.
‘Alternatively, I could pick the lock,’ said Friday. ‘But this is a quality
European commercial cylinder lock. It’s got multiple anti-drill and anti-
picking design elements.’
 ‘So it’s unpickable?’ said Kate.
‘No, I didn’t say that,’ said Friday. ‘No lock is unpickable. It’s just that
good ones take a while to do.’
‘My bladder would prefer not to wait,’ said Melanie.
‘Also, I didn’t bring lock-picking tools with me,’ said Friday. ‘So before
I began, I’d have to make lock-picking tools, which are very specific. I’d
need a suitable small, flat screwdriver and a thin length of metal that I can
bend to make a pin for turning the tumblers.’
‘Okay,’ said Kate. ‘That’s doable. We’re all art students in this building.
People here have all sorts of weird things for making sculptures and mixing
paints.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Friday. ‘But whenever you break in somewhere you have
to consider the risks.’
‘There is no risk,’ said Kate. ‘It’s the Institute’s door. They won’t mind
if it’s damaged.’
‘No, but Sophia will,’ said Friday. ‘We have to spend the next six weeks
sharing a room with her. Bursting into a bathroom where she has sought
refuge would be a terrible way to start that relationship.’
‘Well done, Friday,’ said Melanie. ‘That’s uncharacteristically
empathetic of you.’
‘Then what do you suggest?’ asked Kate.
‘When you analyse the risks and rewards of all the possible ways in
which we could get that door open,’ said Friday, ‘the best strategy would be
to find out if Roberto gets a staff discount.’
‘What?’ said Kate.
‘Roberto works at a pizza shop,’ said Friday. ‘According to his shirt, it’s
the best in Paris. Everyone likes pizza. It smells fantastic. Sophia has been
in there for an hour. Before that she was in a car. It’s probably been hours
since she’s eaten. She’s got to be hungry.’
‘I feel hungry,’ said Melanie. ‘And that’s just from hearing you talk
about pizza.’
‘The walk up those stairs alone is enough to make anyone hungry,’
agreed Friday. ‘And we’re all teenagers, and teenagers are always hungry.
There is a twelve millimetre gap at the bottom of the door where the air can
get through. If we order six large pizzas, she’ll be able to smell them.’
‘We could get a fan to waft the smell in,’ said Melanie.
‘We don’t have a fan,’ said Kate.
 ‘We don’t need one,’ said Friday. ‘We can use thermodynamics. It’s five
degrees centigrade outside, compared to nineteen degrees in here. If we
open that window . . .’ Friday pointed to the window at the end of the
corridor. ‘. . . the warm air from the lounge will be drawn up and along the
corridor, creating a circular convection pattern with the cold air from
outside. The smell will waft past her door. That will be the fastest way to
get her out of the room, while causing the least damage to the property and
allowing her to save face.’
‘It’s worth a try,’ said Kate.
‘Worst case scenario, we all get to eat pizza,’ said Melanie.
‘Now I’m feeling hungry too,’ said Kate.

Twenty minutes later, six extra-large pizzas arrived. Although Roberto did
have to run down the stairs to get them, because the delivery boy refused to
bring them up. But it was worth it, because they did smell fantastic. The
garlic, tomato, oregano and cheese combined to create an odour that was
nothing short of magical. Friday, Melanie, Kate and the two boys all fell on
them, eating with such enthusiasm that they totally forgot about Sophia.
Two pizzas were gone before they realised that there were six of them
sitting around the coffee table. Sophia had let herself out and was onto her
third slice of margherita. Everyone pretended they hadn’t noticed. Friday
and Melanie were finally able to use the bathroom, while Sophia ate a
double helping of tiramisu that Roberto’s uncle had thrown in as a
complimentary dessert.
‘Are you feeling better now?’ Melanie asked.
Sophia nodded. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘It’s just . . .’ She shrugged. She
was clearly a bit embarrassed about the fuss now. ‘I was expecting to spend
the next six weeks with Daddy. But he says I’ll be happier here because he’s
going to be busy with work.’
‘You probably will be happier here,’ Melanie pointed out.
Sophia shrugged. ‘I think he was more concerned that he would be
happier with me here.’
‘This place isn’t so bad,’ said Friday. ‘And we get to go and sketch at
the Louvre tomorrow.’
 ‘I suppose,’ said Sophia. ‘To be honest, I was also a bit disappointed not
to be downstairs in the fourth-floor dorm.’
‘Why?’ asked Adam.
Sophia blushed a bit when she smiled. ‘There’s a boy down there who is
absolutely drop-dead gorgeous.’
‘Really?’ said Melanie.
‘He smiled at me when I walked past with my suitcase,’ added Sophia.
She grinned at the memory. ‘And then . . . he said, “Hi.”’
‘A raconteur as well,’ said Friday sarcastically as she took a big bite of
her pepperoni slice.
‘Oh, I know who you’re talking about,’ said Kate. ‘He’s only been here
a week and he’s caused so much trouble already. All the girls are in love
with him.’
‘What’s his name?’ asked Melanie.
‘Ian,’ said Kate.
Friday choked on her pizza. Melanie had to whack her hard on the back
five times before she could begin to recover herself.
‘But there’s no point getting your hopes up,’ said Kate. ‘He’s seeing
someone already.’
Friday felt slightly better.
‘Who?’ asked Sophia.
‘I don’t know his name,’ said Kate. ‘He’s a boy on the third floor.’
‘Huh?’ said Friday. ‘A boy?’
Melanie smiled. ‘Now, Friday, you have to be open-minded.’
‘I am open-minded,’ said Friday. ‘But you can be open-minded and
confused. The two are not mutually exclusive.’
‘We’ll have to investigate later,’ said Melanie.

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The next morning, Friday and her tutor group were taken over to the
Louvre. Friday was no great art lover, but even her clinical scientific brain
could recognise that the Louvre complex was majestic. You couldn’t help
but become excited as you approached the entrance.
The building had started out as a medieval castle, and successive French
kings had added to it over the centuries, constructing a great rectangular
palace around a massive central courtyard. Then, in the nineteenth century,
an angry revolutionary mob had burned down one whole side of the
rectangle and, amazingly, what was left was even more lovely as a result.
The destroyed wing of the palace had been replaced with a beautiful
open garden so now, from the courtyard of the Louvre, you could see all the
way up the Champs-Élysees to France’s magnificent war memorial – the
Arc de Triomphe. It was spectacular.
But the Louvre building was not just a relic from the past. In the centre
of the courtyard was a huge modern pyramid made of glass. It was a
striking contrast to the classical architecture surrounding it, but somehow it
worked. The glass pyramid hinted at all the excitement contained within.
The Louvre Museum extended underground like a rabbit warren. Gallery
after gallery of exotic treasures leading one into another. The glass pyramid
reminded Friday of an iceberg. It was just the tip. There was ten times more
beauty below.
As students with the Institute, Friday and her tutor group had passes that
allowed them to bypass the long security queues. Kate led the way down
the escalators into the main lobby. This was itself a huge room with marble
walls and floors. There was a gift shop on one side where you could buy
everything from erasers shaped like the Mona Lisa’s face, to hand-crafted
jewellery costing thousands of euros for the tourists who wanted a souvenir
they could really brag about when they got home. On the other side of the
lobby was a massive cloakroom. On the third side was an information desk
and on the fourth there was a passageway that led through to a metro
station.
Friday spotted Agent Okeke in the gift shop folding tea towels. Friday
had to fight the instinct to wave. Agent Okeke glowered.
‘This way,’ said Kate. ‘This morning we’re going to be learning about
French sculpture. The Marly Horses in the Richelieu wing are one of the
most famous exhibits at the Louvre.’
‘But the sculptures in the Marly gallery are just copies, a pastiche of
Greek and Roman statues,’ complained Sophia. ‘Why are we spending our
first day looking at that?’
‘Um . . . they’re really famous,’ said Kate. ‘And because everyone likes
them. They like the horses. They look really realistic.’
‘Also the whole history of Western culture starts with the Ancient
Greeks,’ said Adam. ‘Masterpieces from the Renaissance through to
Impressionist and Expressionist art can all be traced in a direct line of
influence from their origins in Greek and Roman art.’
‘What he said,’ said Kate.
‘But I agree with Sophia,’ said Friday. ‘Can’t we go and look at the
Mona Lisa?’
‘Yeah,’ chimed in Roberto.
‘We are at the Louvre,’ said Adam. ‘We’ve got to see it.’
Kate sighed. She stepped closer to her students and spoke in a lowered
voice. ‘The staff at the Louvre don’t like how tourists come here, spend five
minutes looking at the Mona Lisa, three minutes looking at the Venus De
Milo, half an hour browsing the gift shop and then leave. It’s polite to take
an interest in the French art as well.’
‘French copies,’ scoffed Adam.
‘They’re not copies,’ said Kate. ‘They’re homages.’
Adam rolled his eyes. ‘The art world is so hypocritical. A forgery is
wrong. But an “homage” gets displayed in the Marly gallery.’
‘Yes, well we’re not here to discuss ethics,’ said Kate. ‘We’re artists.
Artists don’t worry overly much about things like that. Students aren’t
allowed to sketch in groups in the room where the Mona Lisa is on display
anyway,’ said Kate. ‘It’s always crowded. They don’t want large groups
clogging up the room for prolonged periods of time. If you want to see the
Mona Lisa, you can go and have a look for yourself during the lunch
break.’
Friday and her fellow students followed Kate up the main staircase.
‘It’s a funny building,’ said Friday, ‘where you have to go down into the
basement to enter, only to go back up above ground to go to the galleries.’
‘The tutor group from the fourth floor will be joining us for today’s
lecture,’ said Kate, calling over her shoulder as she kept walking.
As they turned into the Marly gallery, Friday was stunned by the beauty
before her. The gallery itself was a wonderful light-filled room. The ceiling
was three stories tall. Huge skylights in the roof showed the blue sky above
Paris. The room was intersected with staircases and landings, which
allowed the sculptures to be set at different heights. The magnificent statues
loomed over them.
‘Wow,’ said Friday. She found herself looking up the nose of a rearing
stallion.
‘Definitely wow,’ agreed Melanie.
Kate had been right, the horses were fantastically portrayed in action
poses. But the statues of humans were even more spectacular because they
weren’t really humans, they were the Greek gods getting up to all the
outrageous, violent, passionate things that the Greek gods always did.
Except for one Greek god who was lounging on a stone bench, the sun
glistening off his pale blond hair. It was Ian – he fit in perfectly in this
beautiful room surrounded by beautiful things. He was every bit as arrogant
as Achilles and as petulant as Ares. If he was turned to stone on the spot,
no-one would think he was out of place in the company he was keeping.
Around Ian, there was a bevy of girls. They had their backs to the
sculptures. They were focused purely on him. Friday had no idea what the
girls were saying, but from their body language – constant self-grooming
and lots of unnecessary head tilting – she could tell that they were flirting
with her boyfriend. Ian leaned towards them and whispered something.
They all leaned forward to listen. Then suddenly they threw their heads
back in a cacophony of shrill laughter that reverberated off all the hard
surfaces in the room.
‘Stop scowling,’ said Melanie. ‘You don’t want to compromise our
cover.’
 ‘How can scowling compromise my cover?’ asked Friday.
‘Not so much yours as Ian’s,’ said Melanie. ‘Flirting with girls is how
he gets information. If people realise that you two are really desperately in
love with each other, no-one will tell him anything.’
‘But everyone thinks he’s in love with a boy from the third floor,’ said
Friday. ‘His cover is already compromised.’
‘Not if the boy is very informative,’ said Melanie.
Friday looked at the boy sitting on the bench next to Ian. They weren’t
sitting like they were an item. The boy was ignoring Ian and the girls. He
was hunched over his sketchbook, hard at work on a drawing of a man
strangling a very upset woman.
‘That boy looks familiar,’ said Friday. He was sitting down, but his legs
and arms were so long, you could tell he would be tall. But lanky tall. Like
he’d never played any sport in his life. His hair was a weird powder blue. A
shade that ninety-nine per cent of parents would never tolerate. And ninety-
nine per cent of boys would never think of getting. He was wearing a
shapeless khaki jacket with lots of big pockets. Everything about him said
art student.
‘It’s Epstein!’ exclaimed Melanie.
‘Oh my gosh, you’re right!’ said Friday. ‘I didn’t recognise him without
the Highcrest school uniform.’
‘Highcrest didn’t have a school uniform,’ said Melanie.
‘No, but Epstein had one,’ said Friday. ‘He always wore black jeans,
black shirts and a black jacket.’
‘I wonder what he’s doing here,’ said Friday. ‘His father must still be in
jail.’ Friday knew this because she had put Epstein’s father in jail when he
was briefly her art teacher and she uncovered that he was running a massive
contraband art racket.
The girls walked over. They didn’t even try talking to Ian. The other
girls were demanding his complete attention.
‘Hello, Epstein,’ said Melanie. ‘Fancy meeting you here.’
Epstein looked up and blushed.
‘Friday is ever so cross with you for stealing her boyfriend,’ said
Melanie. ‘I assume you’re the boy on the third floor we’ve heard so much
about.’
‘It wasn’t my idea,’ said Epstein. ‘Ian announced it without telling me.
The girls on the second floor kept badgering him to go out with them. He
needed an excuse not to.’
‘And the truth wouldn’t do?’ asked Melanie.
‘He showed them a photo of Friday and they didn’t believe him,’ said
Epstein.
‘So are you doing this to break Friday’s heart in revenge for her putting
your dad in jail?’ asked Melanie.
‘No,’ said Epstein. ‘For a start, Dad totally deserved to go to jail.
Secondly, he made a deal with the authorities. He grassed out his buyers.
He only served two months of his sentence.’
‘What?!’ exclaimed Friday. ‘He only got two months for embezzling
millions of tax dollars?! I did eleven months and I didn’t do anything.’
‘Yes, but your thing was terrorism,’ said Melanie. ‘People take that
more seriously than art crime.’
‘Art crime funds terrorism!’ argued Friday.
Kate hurried over. ‘Do you think you could keep your voice down?’ she
whispered.
Friday looked about and realised there were several museum visitors
staring at her and she had been talking loudly about how she had served
time in jail for terrorism.
‘Um . . . and – scene!’ said Friday with a bow. ‘We’re rehearsing for a
play.’
The tourists did not look like they believed her. But they did not look
like they wanted to confront a possible child terrorist either. They shuffled
away.
‘You are the worst liar ever in the history of the world,’ said Melanie.
‘I can’t be good at everything,’ said Friday. She turned back to Epstein.
‘So what are you doing here?’
‘Do you work for Interpol too?’ asked Melanie.
‘What?’ said Epstein.
Friday trod on Melanie’s foot. ‘Ow!’ said Melanie. There’s nothing like
asking someone who doesn’t work for Interpol if they work for Interpol too
to totally blow your cover.
‘Do you like working on interpolating art too?’ fabricated Friday.
‘We’re really looking forward to bringing our own interpretation to our
sketches of the great masterworks on display.’
‘Um, okay,’ said Epstein, looking confused.
 ‘Gather round everyone,’ said Kate. ‘Professor Emmanuel from the
Louvre curacy department is going to give you a talk on French sculpture.’
The students made their way over to the bespectacled man standing in
front of a statue of Zeus. He looked pre-bored, and he was the one giving
the lecture. The teenage students stood no chance. Professor Emmanuel
cleared his throat and began talking in a dreary monotone about the
provenance of the marble, and how they worked with geologists to narrow
down the location of the quarry in Italy where it was mined.
‘Hello,’ Ian whispered in Friday’s ear. She shivered. She hadn’t realised
he was so close.
‘Can you risk being seen talking to me?’ asked Friday. She wished she
could sound cool, but she couldn’t do it. Her voice came across as peevish.
‘I think I can risk talking,’ said Ian. ‘But I can’t risk what I’d like to do.’
Friday glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. She wasn’t sure what
he meant. She hated it when people didn’t say exactly what they were trying
to say.
‘I’m glad to see you’re feeling better,’ said Ian. ‘Do you want to sneak
behind a statue with me?’
Now Friday blushed. ‘I don’t think that’s appropriate.’
‘Achem,’ said the professor. ‘Blond boy at the back, would you like to
share what is so interesting with the group?’
Friday closed her eyes and wished that she could be sucked down into
the floor. She hoped desperately that Ian would not tell the truth. As a
scientist she didn’t think she would literally die of embarrassment, but she
was pretty sure her soul would wither up and disintegrate.
‘I was just saying I was impressed by the juxtaposition of the cold white
marble with the wild passion of the subjects portrayed,’ said Ian. ‘So much
emotion captured forever in pure hard stone.’
‘Well, yes . . . quite,’ said the professor. He turned and looked at the
statues himself, as if checking if Ian was looking at the same thing as him.
Ian smiled at Friday.
Friday rolled her eyes.
Ian chuckled. They both tried to concentrate on the rest of the lecture.

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Friday’s first impression of the Mona Lisa was that it was small. Although,
not as small as everyone said. It was just an average-sized painting. It was
also kind of dark. Not eye-catching at all compared to the colourful
paintings by Titian on the other walls of the room, or the bold use of light in
the Caravaggio out in the corridor. The Mona Lisa was just a small-to-
medium sized dark painting of a woman wearing dark clothes.
The first indicator of its cultural significance was the huge crowd
clutched around it. They all desperately wanted to elbow each other out of
the way, but this was an art gallery, not a football match, so that was not
really appropriate. There were also four security guards in the room and
CCTV cameras at several points around the ceiling. So everyone had to
follow standard art gallery etiquette. People behave in art galleries the way
they do in libraries. They instinctively whisper and move slowly so as not to
disturb anyone. Hip-checking a Japanese tourist so you could get a better
selfie with a famous painting would not be okay.
The next sign that this painting was somehow special was the
bulletproof glass. Really, when you think about it, it’s remarkable that the
vast majority of great paintings in the world are just hung on walls in public
galleries where anyone (that is, anyone who can afford the entrance fee) can
walk right up to the fragile surface of a priceless masterpiece. Usually the
only thing stopping a person from touching the five-hundred-year-old,
delicate oil paint itself is social custom and a white line drawn on the floor,
or perhaps a red velvet rope (barricades even an arthritic grandmother with
a Zimmer frame could easily overcome).
The custodians of the Louvre collection had long since learned the error
of their ways where the Mona Lisa was concerned. There was a sturdy
balustrade to keep the crowds back and under the portrait itself there was a
large wooden shelf. It looked like an altar in a cathedral. And the crowd
behaved like they were in a cathedral. Except they were there to worship
this one work of art.
Between the balustrade, the bench and the bulletproof glass, the crowd
could not get too close. This wasn’t just protection for the painting, it was
an attempt at fairness. If everyone had to stand back one point five metres,
more people could see the Mona Lisa at the same time.
Even if you did want to try ducking under the balustrade, climbing over
the bench and touching the bulletproof glass, there was the added
disincentive of the security guards standing alongside the painting watching
the crowd. There were over five thousand paintings on display at the
Louvre Museum, but this was the only piece to have its own security team
guarding it every moment that the gallery was open. If you came to see the
Mona Lisa, there was always someone looking at you looking at the
painting.
‘She’s a bit of an odd duck, isn’t she?’ said Melanie.
‘Who?’ asked Friday. She scanned the crowd, trying to guess who
Melanie was referring to.
‘The Mona Lisa,’ said Melanie. ‘If you were at a party and she was
there, looking like that, would you go and say hello?’
Friday had been looking at the security and the crowd. She hadn’t
stopped to think about the painting in this way. As if the subject were
actually a person. Although of course she had been five hundred years ago –
a real living, breathing person with a life as complicated, if not more
complicated, than anyone standing in that room. Lisa Gherardini had once
been a woman who did all the usual everyday things, including attending
parties.
‘I can’t answer that question,’ said Friday. ‘I don’t do small talk
properly with anyone regardless of how they look.’
‘Do you think she had a lot of friends?’ said Melanie. ‘Her outfit isn’t
very cheerful.’
‘She’s smiling,’ said Friday.
 ‘Only just,’ said Melanie. ‘Really, it’s odd that this is the most famous
painting in the world.’
‘Well if this wasn’t, what would be?’ asked Friday.
‘Sunflowers by Vincent Van Gogh,’ said Melanie. ‘It’s much more
cheerful.’
Friday shook her head. ‘People don’t want cheerfulness from the arts.
That’s why the vast majority of theatre, literature, poetry and paintings are
all miserable.’
Friday stared at the portrait. There was something about it. ‘Besides,’
she continued, ‘this painting was considered avant-garde and shockingly
cheerful because of that sort of half smile.’
‘If you look at it long enough,’ said Melanie, tilting her head to one side
and squinting a bit, ‘I’m not convinced it even is a smile. It’s more of a not-
quite frown.’
‘It’s also famous because it’s superbly done,’ said Friday. The textbook
about da Vinci she’d read on the airplane went on about this in great depth.
‘The colours, the brush work, the expression – it’s all exceptional.’
‘I suppose so,’ conceded Melanie.
‘And the composition has lots of false-perspective mathematical stuff
going on,’ said Friday. ‘If you look closely, you’ll see the background on
the right side of her head doesn’t match with the background on the left side
of her head. Not unless the painting is meant to depict some sort of
geological cataclysm.’
‘Very odd,’ said Melanie as she leaned in to peer at the strangely
deformed countryside.
‘Plus, da Vinci was a great master,’ added Friday. ‘Greater than all the
other masters of the Renaissance and this is his greatest painting. That’s
why it’s famous.’
‘Yes, but he couldn’t paint noses,’ said Melanie.
‘What?’ said Friday.
‘He couldn’t paint noses,’ said Melanie, pointing at the Mona Lisa. ‘You
see one of his noses and you think, oh well, that must be what that one
person, Lisa Gherardini, must have looked like. You don’t often see two da
Vinci paintings side by side because he didn’t do a lot of paintings, and the
few that survive are so valuable they’re spread all over the world. But when
you see pictures of all his pictures next to each other in a book, you realise
– he always did noses the same way, and they are always wrong. He doesn’t
do the dent at the top of the nose where it meets the eyebrow.’
‘No way,’ said Friday, peering closer at the Mona Lisa. Her nose did
look a little unusual.
Melanie leafed through their lecture notes and showed Friday several
different images from different Leonardo da Vinci paintings. All of them –
his pictures of Saint Anne, Saint Mary, Jesus, the twelve disciples – they all
had the same misshaped noses.
‘Oh my gosh,’ said Friday. ‘You’re right!’
‘I know,’ said Melanie. ‘He invented the concept of the helicopter, drew
the Vitruvian man, painted the Mona Lisa and yet – he couldn’t do noses.’
‘That’s very deflating,’ said Friday.
‘Not at all,’ said Melanie. ‘I think it makes him more human. Her hands
are wrong too.’ Melanie pointed at the Mona Lisa’s hands. ‘Look, they’re
all pudgy. Like a baby’s hands.’
‘Maybe she had a hand-swelling disease,’ said Friday, as she peered
closer. ‘Disease was rife in the Renaissance.’
‘If she was that sick, she wouldn’t be smiling?’ asked Melanie.
‘Oh my gosh!’ exclaimed Friday, suddenly noticing something else.
‘She doesn’t have a clavicle either!’
‘A what?’ asked Melanie.
‘A collarbone,’ said Friday, pointing to the collarbone on her own neck.
Melanie turned to compare it to the painting.
‘You’re right!’ said Melanie. ‘It’s like her bosom billowed out from her
shoulders. It’s amazing this painting is famous at all when it has so many
biological errors.’
‘Well, da Vinci was gay,’ said Friday. ‘Perhaps he didn’t get to look at
many women’s bodies.’
‘But he would have seen women walking about in the street,’ said
Melanie. ‘He must have noticed that they had collarbones and their noses
had bridges.’
‘Apparently not,’ said Friday. They stood and stared at the Mona Lisa
some more. ‘And yet, there is something about it, isn’t there? It’s dark and
it’s just a picture of a woman. But something about it glows. Like it’s
humming with magic and mystery.’
‘You’ve been in the art gallery too long,’ said Melanie. ‘You’re starting
to talk in poetry.’
 ‘As a scientist, I can appreciate that there are things beyond my
scientific understanding,’ said Friday. ‘Not many things, but some. The
inexplicable allure of this painting is one of them.’
They continued to sketch as they stood at the back of the room.
Sketching was proving to be an excellent excuse for standing in one spot,
staring at everything in minute detail. If you behaved in exactly the same
way without a sketchpad in your hands, someone would complain that you
were a delinquent youth loitering about, or that you were staring at people
and stalking them. But if you stand in an art gallery with a sketchbook and
pencil, you can stare at whatever you like all day long. Friday made a
mental note to make use of this tactic more often when she needed to do
surveillance.
As Friday looked about, she noticed a sign on the wall. It was just inside
the doorway and it said, ‘Beware of pickpockets’ in French and in English.
And for people who couldn’t read either there were pictograms of someone
having their wallet stolen.
‘That’s redundant,’ said Friday.
‘What?’ asked Melanie.
‘Pickpocketing,’ said Friday. ‘No-one carries money in their pockets
anymore. People don’t even steal phones anymore. For a start, everyone
already has one. And if you steal one you’re basically stealing a tracking
device so the police or the owner can track you down.’
Friday went back to observing the security guards. She checked her
watch and started timing how often, and for how long, their eyes swept
back and forth across the crowd. How often they adjusted their position to
alter their view. When new guards came in to relieve them of their duty.
Whether their heads dropped as they started to nod off from the sheer
boredom of it all. She made notes of all this for Bernie.
Friday was also able to watch the crowd. Even though there were new
visitors flowing in and out of the room constantly, they mostly all did the
same things. They stared at the painting for a couple of minutes. Then they
seemed to feel awkward because there wasn’t anything else to do and
they’d seen it now. So they’d get out their camera and take a photo. Then
they’d take a photo of themselves with the painting.
Then they’d look again, then they’d slowly, sometimes haltingly, make
their exit from the room. Having come all the way to Paris, made their way
through the massive, confusing labyrinth of the Louvre, found this smallish
dark but inexplicably famous painting of a woman with an anatomically
incorrect nose – it didn’t seem right to be leaving again so soon, but there
wasn’t really anything else to do.
There was a pretty girl close to the front of the crowd. She looked like
an art student too. There must have been something charming about her,
because in the time that Friday was watching she noticed three different
tourists ask this girl to take a photo for them.
‘I’m not really sure what we’re meant to be doing here,’ said Friday.
‘I thought we were supposed to be observing,’ said Melanie.
‘But the mystery isn’t here,’ said Friday. ‘The mystery is wherever
Uncle Bernie’s got to. The clues that need to be followed are about the
letter. We can’t take the painting down from the wall and analyse it
ourselves.’
‘We can analyse the people,’ said Melanie.
‘They’re just tourists,’ said Friday.
‘Nobody is just a tourist,’ said Melanie. ‘Everyone is on their own
journey. They’re here because they’ve always longed to see the most
famous painting in all the world, or because they’re on their honeymoon
and their wife has dragged them here or because they really like taking
close-up photos of people’s noses.’
‘What?’ said Friday.
‘I’m just saying for everyone here, being here, looking at the Mona Lisa
is a significant day in their lives,’ said Melanie.
‘No, I mean, what was that bit about the noses?’ said Friday.
‘Oh, that girl. The one with the lovely smile and sparkly phone case.
She keeps being asked to take photos for other people,’ said Melanie. ‘But
before she takes a photo with their phone, she always snaps a picture with
her own from a weird angle.’
‘She does?’ asked Friday.
‘Sure, we’ve seen her take photos for four different people,’ said
Melanie. ‘And each time, as she reaches across to take their phone, she
holds her own phone near their chest and taps the screen, so I assume that’s
what she’s doing.’
‘Oh my gosh,’ said Friday. ‘She’s robbing them!’
‘What?’ said Melanie.
‘If she has a photo of their face,’ said Friday, ‘she can use Face ID to
unlock their phone. She can access their banking app and take money while
she’s pretending to take their picture.’
‘But that’s so complicated,’ said Melanie.
‘But you could do it in seconds,’ said Friday. ‘Pickpockets spend years
practising to lift a wallet from someone’s pocket without them feeling it.
This is the high-tech version. You could transfer $500 to yourself in
seconds. If someone is on holiday in Paris, they’re spending money hand
over fist every day. They might never notice.’
‘That’s crazy,’ said Melanie. ‘She can’t be doing that.’
‘It’s brilliant and I bet she is,’ said Friday. ‘Let’s watch her to see if she
does it again.’
It took another few minutes. Then they watched as a couple asked the
girl to take a photo for them.
‘Here we go,’ said Friday.
The girl took their phone, but as she reached across, she had her own
phone in that hand. Friday definitely saw her tap the screen with her thumb.
‘You’re right!’ said Friday, ‘She took a photo of his face.’
As the tourists got themselves into position, the girl held their phone
above the picture on her own for a moment.
‘And she just unlocked it,’ said Melanie.
They watched as the pretty girl held up the tourist’s own phone to take
their picture. From where they were standing behind her, they could see she
was actually opening the banking app.
‘That is so naughty,’ said Melanie.
‘It’s so blazon,’ said Friday.
‘A couple more,’ said the pretty girl. She had closed the banking app
and was really taking their picture now.
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Melanie. ‘Call Bernie?’
‘This isn’t the crime we’re here to investigate,’ said Friday.
‘We’ve got to report her,’ said Melanie.
‘We can’t make a fuss,’ said Friday. ‘It would blow our cover.’
‘We have to do something,’ asked Melanie.
‘I know,’ said Friday. ‘Let’s go to the gift shop.’
‘Now is not the time for souvenirs,’ said Melanie.
‘No, not for the shopping,’ said Friday. ‘To talk to Agent Okeke.’

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Friday and Melanie found Agent Okeke in the Louvre gift shop, arranging a
display of brightly coloured statuettes of the Venus de Milo into a rainbow
pattern.
‘How can I help you mesdames?’ asked Agent Okeke, in such a hostile
tone it was clear she didn’t want to be any help at all.
‘We’ve got something to report,’ whispered Friday, while pretending to
look at a rack of tea towels. ‘We spotted a thief.’
‘Trying to steal the Mona Lisa?’ asked Agent Okeke. This had got her
attention.
‘No, a thief who’s been using her mobile phone to hack into the phones
of tourists,’ said Friday. ‘Then taking money from their bank account while
pretending to take their picture.’
‘That’s not quite right,’ corrected Melanie. ‘She does actually take their
picture.’
‘True,’ agreed Friday. ‘She’s taking money just before taking their
picture.’
Agent Okeke looked at Friday with unconcealed disgust. ‘You know, I
used to be in the counter-terrorism squad. I am trained in how to disarm
bombs, subdue terrorists and smash my way into multi-storey buildings. It’s
bad enough that I have been reduced to surveillance in the art crime unit. I
absolutely refuse to be dragged down even further into wasting my time on
virtual pickpockets and the tourists foolish enough to fall for their scams.’
‘That’s not very professional,’ said Melanie. ‘Surely it’s your job to help
people.’
 ‘No, it’s not,’ said Agent Okeke. ‘It’s my job to arrest bad people. And if
they won’t let me arrest them, sometimes I get to shoot them.’
‘How did you ever pass the psych test?’ asked Friday.
‘Easily,’ said Agent Okeke. ‘I lied. Interpol needs agents like me. We
can’t all be wishy washy hand-holders. They need some of us to wrestle
down armed gunmen and throw ourselves on bombs.’
‘We can’t let this girl get away with it,’ said Friday.
‘Yes, you can,’ said Agent Okeke. ‘It’s called maintaining your cover.
You’d know all about it if you’d ever been trained properly.’
‘Brianna,’ called the shop manager. Friday had forgotten that Agent
Okeke had a first name. ‘If you’ve finished chatting with your young
customers, I need you to fetch more Mona Lisa coffee mugs from the
stockroom.’
The manager turned on her heel and strode away.
Agent Okeke gritted her teeth. Friday noticed her hand clench around
the throat of the Venus de Milo statuette she was holding. ‘Oui, madame,’
she said with a very false smile.
‘Aaahhh!’ came a despairing wail from the entrance to the shop. Friday
and Melanie turned to see an older Nigerian woman in a fabulous hot pink
gele headscarf staring at Agent Okeke. ‘Your brother told me you were here
and I did not believe him!’
‘Oh no,’ said Agent Okeke.
‘Someone you know?’ asked Friday.
‘My mother,’ muttered Agent Okeke.
‘How lovely!’ said Melanie. ‘It’s nice she came to visit you at work.’
Mrs Okeke strode into the store and poked Agent Okeke in the chest.
‘Your father and I did not struggle to bring you to this country so you could
be a shop girl!’ she declared.
Agent Okeke didn’t exactly cower, but something about her body
language changed. The presence of her mother seemed to make her shrink.
‘It’s not like you paddled across the Mediterranean in a boat,’ grumbled
Agent Okeke. ‘You flew here business class when Peugeot hired Papa as an
engineer.’
Mrs Okeke chose to ignore this point and stick to emotional blackmail.
‘You did so well at school and university. You could have done anything!’
‘I’m doing what I want,’ said Agent Okeke.
 ‘Selling over-priced postcards?!’ demanded Mrs Okeke, flicking her
hand dramatically in the direction of the postcard rack on the wall. ‘Has
Interpol fired you now as well? Is this the only job left you can get?’
‘Shhh, Maman, this is not the time or place,’ said Agent Okeke. ‘I’ll
come over to dinner and explain everything.’
‘You are always too busy to come and see me,’ said Agent Okeke’s
mother.
‘I eat dinner at your house every Sunday,’ said Agent Okeke.
Mrs Okeke sniffed and looked away. ‘Only because my cooking is so
good.’
Agent Okeke leaned in and spoke to her mother softly in a different
language. ‘Uwa, ina yi wa ’yan sanda kasuwanci a asirce. Kuna bu atar
barin.’
Whatever she said, it caught her mother’s attention.
‘Yan sanda?’ said Mrs Okeke, suddenly more serious.
Agent Okeke nodded.
‘Oh,’ said Mrs Okeke.
‘What was that?’ Melanie asked Friday.
‘I don’t know,’ said Friday. ‘I presume they’re talking Hausa. In Niger,
it’s the second most common language after French.’
‘I’ll call you later,’ Agent Okeke told her mother.
‘All right,’ said Mrs Okeke.
Agent Okeke kissed her mother on the cheek. ‘And tell Usman he’s an
idiot.’
‘I will,’ agreed Mrs Okeke, kissing her back. ‘I definitely will.’ She
swept away.
‘You can’t have family members come here and create a scene,’ said the
shop manager. She hadn’t had the courage to point this out while Mrs
Okeke was still in the store. Now Agent Okeke’s mother had left, the shop
manager felt safe to bully her employee again. ‘I’m going to have to write
this up.’
Agent Okeke turned to her manager. There was no hint of a little girl
about her anymore. She was back in professional mode. ‘I de-escalated the
situation quickly and persuaded my family member to leave so that we
could resolve the issue at an appropriate time and place,’ said Agent Okeke.
‘I fail to see how I could have handled the situation better. I will be filing a
full report with my union representative to document the incident, including
your attempt to threaten me – and these two customers are my witnesses.’
Melanie smiled at the manager. ‘And we’ll be such good witnesses,’
said Melanie. ‘My family is very wealthy, so I’ll hire the best attorney to
make sure our statements hold up in any industrial tribunal.’
‘There’s no need for any of that,’ said the manager. ‘Just make sure you
fetch those coffee mugs.’
The manager stalked off.
Agent Okeke turned to Friday and Melanie. She didn’t speak. She just
pressed her lips together and glared.
‘Are you trying to say “thank you” but you can’t bring yourself to say
the words?’ asked Friday.
‘I hate teenagers,’ muttered Agent Okeke.
‘I love your mum,’ said Melanie.
Agent Okeke made a grunting noise and went over to get the mugs.
Friday felt a pang of jealousy. She wished she had the type of mother who
stormed into public spaces and yelled at her in a totally humiliating way.
While it was undoubtably painful for Agent Okeke – it was an impressive
act of love to behold.

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When Friday and Melanie got back to their dorm that afternoon, Sophia was
already sitting on her bed. Watercolour paints were spread out all around
her as she added colour to the drawing she had done that morning.
‘There’s a note for you,’ said Sophia without looking up.
‘Where?’ asked Friday in surprise.
‘Oh, Friday, that’s not very observant of you,’ said Melanie, reaching
past Friday’s head to where a note was pinned to the door just inches from
her face. The note was folded up and had just one word written on the
outside. ‘Friday’.
Friday opened it out.

Meet me at 9.30 at the bottom of the fire escape. Your secret

admirer.

Friday blushed. She recognised the handwriting. It was Ian.

‘We have a 9 pm curfew,’ said Sophia. ‘You’ll be breaking the rules if
you go.’
‘How do you know what’s in the note?’ asked Friday.
‘I read it,’ said Sophia, briefly glancing up. ‘Just because I’m an art
student doesn’t mean I can’t read.’
‘But it’s a private note,’ said Friday.
‘It was an unsealed piece of paper pinned to a door in an open area,’
said Sophia with a shrug.
‘But it was clearly addressed to me,’ said Friday.
 ‘It said “Friday”,’ said Sophia. ‘But how was I meant to know it meant
Friday the name? It could have meant Friday the day. As in, a note about
something happening on Friday. Friday isn’t really a name, so for me to
assume it was indicating a specific person would be ridiculous.’
‘Not if one of the two people you share a room with is called Friday,’
said Friday.
‘Buy your secret admirer a box of envelopes and it’ll never happen
again,’ said Sophia.
‘There’s a kettle in the kitchen,’ said Melanie. ‘If he starts using
envelopes we can steam them open.’
‘Melanie, don’t encourage her,’ said Friday.
‘So who is your secret admirer?’ asked Sophia. ‘If you tell me all the
juicy details, I promise not to rat you out to Kate.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Friday. ‘It’s secret.’
‘You’re lying,’ said Melanie. Melanie had a gift for knowing when
anyone was lying. Although in this instance, being Friday’s best friend,
Melanie could have deduced that she was lying simply by using common
sense.
‘Ah, Friday,’ said Kate, suddenly appearing in their doorway. ‘Glad to
catch you. Look, I hate to be a drag, but if you’re going to sneak out to see
your boyfriend, or girlfriend – no judgements here – then could you be a bit
subtle about it? Use the fire escape. It’s just that there is a curfew and I need
plausible deniability.’
‘You read my note too?’ asked Friday. ‘Does no-one here have any
respect for privacy?’
‘Well, I’m the RT,’ said Kate. ‘I need to know when people are sneaking
out and breaking curfew so that I can make sure I’m not there to see them
do it. If I see you, I have to stop you. Then I have to fill in an incident report
and I’m in the middle of an oil painting of the Tuileries Garden.’
‘How lovely,’ said Melanie.
‘I know,’ agreed Kate. ‘It’s just the sort of painting I’ll be able to get
some cashed-up tourist to overpay for, which is why I haven’t got time to
do my actual job responsibly.’
‘It’s important to prioritise,’ agreed Melanie.
‘I broke the lock on the window by the fire escape so it’s easy to jimmy
open with a butter knife,’ Kate told Friday. ‘Here’s a butter knife.’ She
reached into the pocket of her painting smock and pulled out the utensil.
‘I’ll make sure I’m listening to really loud music in my room at nine
twenty-five.’
‘Okay,’ said Friday. Kate disappeared back into her own room. Friday
stood looking at the butter knife in her hand. ‘Artistic people are
surprisingly similar to theoretical physicists. They’re so obsessed with their
work, nothing else they do makes any sense.’

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When Friday climbed out through the living room window onto the fire
escape at 9.28 that evening, the first thing she noticed was that the steel
railings were freezing cold. December in Paris was nippy during the day,
but as soon as the sun went down the temperature dropped like a stone. It
was also dark and Friday’s eyes hadn’t adjusted properly yet. It was
disconcerting that the only thing beneath her feet was a steel grate that she
could see through. The five-storey drop made her stomach lurch. Friday
clutched the railing tightly.
Friday did not care for heights. Or anything that involved coordination.
Walking down a fire escape without looking at her feet was going to be a
challenge. She edged around the landing until she was standing at the top of
the first flight of steps.
‘I can do this,’ muttered Friday, trying to convince herself by saying the
words out loud. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and began her
descent. She concentrated on counting each step. Math always took her
mind off things. She didn’t like the way the fire escape creaked each time
she put down her foot. Thirteen. There were thirteen steps before she
arrived at the turn in the stairs. She pivoted, eyes still closed, and took the
next thirteen to the fourth-floor landing.
‘Hello.’
Friday flinched back. There was a voice centimetres from her face.
When she opened her eyes – it was Ian.
‘You!’ said Friday.
 ‘Who did you expect?’ asked Ian. ‘Do you get lots of notes asking you
to meet someone on the fire escape at nine thirty?’
‘I thought I’d meet you at the bottom,’ said Friday.
‘I guessed you might have trouble with the heights,’ said Ian. ‘This is
my floor. I thought I’d wait for you here and help you get down the rest of
the way.’
This would have been sweet if the twinkle in Ian’s eye hadn’t made
Friday suspect that he was laughing at her.
‘I was managing,’ said Friday.
‘Another three flights and you would have been traumatised,’ said Ian.
‘We can’t have you in shock. We need your brain in top form.’
‘Why?’ asked Friday. ‘What do you need my brain for?’
‘We’re going to the Louvre to meet Bernie,’ said Ian. ‘The world’s
leading Leonardo da Vinci expert has just flown in from Berlin. He’s going
to examine the painting tonight after the gallery closes.’
‘Oh,’ said Friday.
‘What?’ said Ian.
‘Your note said this was a date,’ said Friday.
‘Did it?’ said Ian.
‘Well, it implied it,’ said Friday.
‘We’re meant to be undercover,’ said Ian. ‘I couldn’t leave a note saying
that we had to meet an art expert to determine if the Mona Lisa had been
stolen. What if one of your dorm mates read it?’
‘They did all read it,’ said Friday.
‘There you go,’ said Ian. ‘I was being subtle.’
‘Okay,’ said Friday.
‘You’re disappointed this isn’t a date, aren’t you?’ said Ian. He was
definitely smirking now.
‘Of course not,’ said Friday. ‘Dates are anachronistic. Redundant, really.
It’s silly in this age of post fourth-wave feminism to entertain outdated
notions of how . . .’
Ian leaned forward and kissed her.
‘What was that for?’ asked Friday.
‘To make things a little date-ish,’ said Ian. ‘Obviously, I am a post
fourth-wave feminist myself, but I like to respect ancient cultural traditions.
Come on, we don’t want to be late for Bernie.’
 Ian took Friday by the hand and led her down the stairs. She forgot that
it was a fire escape for a moment. With Ian’s fingers wrapped around hers,
her feet went into autopilot. All her brain could focus on was how nice it
was to hold a warm hand after holding the cold steel railing for so long.
‘Do you want to grab some hire scooters?’ asked Ian. ‘It will be
quicker.’
‘Are you kidding,’ said Friday. ‘You know my sense of balance. I’m not
going to be able to help the investigation if I’m roadkill.’
‘We could share one,’ said Ian. ‘That would be very date-like.’
‘Can’t we just walk?’ said Friday. ‘I know the idea of a couple sharing
an e-scooter seems romantic. But there will be nothing romantic about the
trip to the emergency room when I inevitably break my wrist.’
‘Fine,’ said Ian. ‘I tried.’

When they arrived at the Louvre, the security guard at the Passage
Richelieu entrance was expecting them. Ian and Friday flashed their
Interpol IDs and they were soon inside.
‘Where to?’ asked Friday.
‘The Mona Lisa room,’ said Ian.
‘Yes, but where’s that?’ said Friday.
‘I thought you and Melanie went there this afternoon?’ said Ian.
‘We did, but we’ll never find it again without a map,’ said Friday. ‘This
place is a maze.’
Ian looked perplexed. ‘It’s just across the main lobby, up the east
staircase for two floors, right towards the antiquities wing, right again past
the headless statue of Winged Victory of Samothrace, down the corridor and
left into room seven hundred and eleven – Italian paintings.’
‘I don’t even know where the main lobby is,’ said Friday, looking about
at the dimly lit corridors that spread out in three different directions from
where they were standing.
Ian stared at her in disbelief for a moment. ‘It’s the big room in the
middle of the building with a glass pyramid on top,’ he said. ‘It’s hard to
miss. How can you be so smart but be confused by the layout of a
building?’
 ‘If we were outside, that would be different,’ said Friday. ‘I could
navigate by the stars.’
Ian took out his mobile. ‘You need to get a phone.’
‘So I can use Google Maps?’ said Friday. ‘Any hacker can use that data
to track your location, you know.’
‘They could,’ agreed Ian. ‘But you can also download a compass app.’
Ian tapped an icon on the screen and a compass appeared. ‘Now you can
navigate.’
‘That is pretty cool,’ said Friday, genuinely impressed. ‘But I could also
use my actual compass.’ She pulled a compass out of her pocket and held it
on her palm. It looked just like Ian’s app.
Ian rolled his eyes. ‘Come on. We need to go south.’ He grabbed her
hand again and started striding confidently into the bowels of the building.
A few minutes, several staircases and many twists and turns later, they
turned into the room where the Mona Lisa was on display.
Friday was breathless from trying to keep pace with Ian. When she
stepped into the room, she was delighted to see her uncle.
‘Bernie!’ she cried.
‘You’re here!’ said Uncle Bernie.
Friday hurried over to hug him, then thought better of it, which made
Bernie self-conscious. Then, after the awkward hesitation, Friday suddenly
felt like crying. Being a deductive genius, she realised this was probably
because she’d been through so much upheaval in the past ten days – she
was really glad to see her loveable, kind-hearted uncle. Friday lunged
forward to hug him, which Bernie didn’t quite anticipate, so it ended up that
she sort of hugged his waist while Bernie patted her shoulders.
Ian rolled his eyes. ‘You two are as painfully awkward as each other.’
‘You’re looking much better than last time I saw you,’ Bernie told
Friday. ‘Less blue.’
‘What were you doing in Germany?’ asked Friday.
‘Finding an expert, or “connoisseur” as they’re called in the art world,’
said Bernie.
Ian chuckled. ‘I thought a connoisseur was an ice cream.’
‘I’d love an ice cream,’ said Bernie wistfully. He turned to look at a
group of men standing over near the Mona Lisa. They were all dressed in
suits. They exuded importance. ‘But we’ve got to deal with this first.’
‘Are you going to introduce us?’ asked Friday.
 ‘Probably better if I don’t,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘The tall guy on the left
in the sharp suit is the director of the gallery. He’s a bit upset already.
Anything could set him off into a full-blown tantrum at this point. You’d
better just observe.’
‘Observe what?’ asked Friday.
‘Our connoisseur,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘Professor Abernathy is going to
examine the painting.’
‘The Professor Bertram Abernathy?’ asked Friday. ‘From Leipzig
University and former director of the Zentralinstitut für Kunstgeschichte?’
‘The one and only,’ said Bernie.
‘I’ve got his book,’ said Friday. She opened her shoulder bag and pulled
out the massive textbook she’d read on the plane. ‘It’s very thorough. Very,
very thorough. Even I found it dry, and I like reading theoretical physics
dissertations.’
Friday peered around Uncle Bernie. A very small, very elderly man was
standing next to the balustrade in front of the Mona Lisa. A large, old-
fashioned leather briefcase sat at his feet. But Professor Abernathy wasn’t
looking at the painting. He was looking at his shoes, which admittedly were
quite interesting because one was black while the other was brown.
Professor Abernathy seemed to be lost in deep thought. Although he may
have simply been trying to politely ignore the director of the Louvre, who
seemed to be working himself into a full-blown rage.
‘I forbid it, I forbid it!’ declared the director, holding his finger in the air
and waggling it to emphasise his point. As if he wanted God up in heaven to
see what was going on.
‘But we just want to take a look,’ said another man. This man was very
well dressed and well groomed. A bit too well, perhaps. He looked like he
dyed his hair and had an extensive skincare regime.
‘That’s the minister for the arts and cultural affairs,’ explained Bernie. ‘I
asked him to come and reason with the director. I thought the director was
being difficult with me because I’m a foreigner.’
‘And you look like a thug,’ said Friday.
‘Yes, that too,’ agreed Bernie, glancing down at his large waistline.
Uncle Bernie had played ice hockey for the Riga Raiders in his youth. He
was very large and very stocky. Somehow, despite now being married to an
ardent vegetarian, he still managed to maintain a very high calorie, high
cholesterol diet. ‘These arts types are tremendously prejudiced against the
burly.’
‘You should be ashamed.’ The director was still denouncing the
minister. ‘You are a traitor to your country!’
‘It turns out,’ whispered Uncle Bernie, ‘that the director is just as rude
to his fellow countrymen.’
‘You are vandals,’ said the director. ‘All of you are seeking to vandalise
this great national treasure.’
Friday made a snorting sound. The director’s head snapped round.
‘Who is this little girl who sounds like a pig?’ demanded the director.
‘You bring in crowds of children now to insult me.’
‘Not crowds,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘Just two. They’re investigative
consultants from Interpol. They’re just here to observe.’
‘And to make animal noises,’ said the director. ‘So now we have an oaf
and a pig.’
‘You’re the one who’s being oafish,’ said Ian, protectively taking a half
step towards Friday.
‘And now I am to be insulted inside my own gallery?’ demanded the
director.
‘It’s not your gallery,’ said Friday. ‘It belongs to the people of France.’
‘I’m insulted again,’ declared the director. ‘The pig child explains my
job to me.’
Ian took Friday’s hand and squeezed it, a little too hard. Like he wanted
to use that hand to punch the director, but squeezing Friday’s hand was the
next best thing.
‘Professor Abernathy just wants to take a look at the painting,’ said the
minister calmly, as if he were speaking to a deranged lunatic, not a
professional museum director.
‘He can look. He can look all day long!’ said the director. ‘Let the man
look. I’m not stopping him.’
‘But to observe the brush strokes and colour properly he needs to see
the painting without the bulletproof glass,’ said Uncle Bernie, in the tone of
a man who had said this same thing several times before.
‘No, no, no!’ said the director. ‘The case maintains perfect temperature
and humidity to preserve the masterpiece. I refuse to allow it to be exposed
to pollution.’
 ‘But the Mona Lisa was exposed to open air for four hundred years
before it was put behind glass in 1956,’ said Friday. ‘A half hour while the
professor looks at it won’t do it any harm.’
‘Oh, the pig girl is an expert in paint preservation also?’ said the
director sarcastically. ‘This girl – she is most incredible!’
‘She is, actually,’ said Ian.
‘Jean Pierre, please,’ said the minister.
‘I refuse,’ said the director. ‘I hold the only key to this case. No-one can
open it without my permission. I do not give that permission.’
‘We can get a court order,’ said Uncle Bernie.
‘You could just punch him and take it,’ mumbled Ian.
‘You think you could get a court order?’ said the director. ‘I would like
to see you try! The judiciary in the country respects the arts. They will
protect the Mona Lisa from being violated.’
‘Achem,’ said Professor Abernathy, speaking for the first time. He
spoke slowly and with a quavering voice distinctive of the elderly. ‘Perhaps
you should have had this discussion before flying me here.’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘I knew the director didn’t want the
painting to be physically tested. I didn’t realise he had an objection to it
being viewed as well.’
‘I will return to my home in Leipzig,’ said the professor, picking up his
bag and handing it to his assistant. ‘You can contact me if you resolve this.’
‘No, please,’ said the minister. ‘You’re here now. Can you please inspect
the painting through the glass. See if there is anything noteworthy.’
The professor shook his head. ‘This is not ideal. Not ideal at all.’
‘No, but the glass is clean. You brought your equipment with you. You
have magnifying lenses you can hold against the glass to observe the
brushstroke in detail,’ said the minister. ‘You will be able to form some
opinion.’
The professor made some soft clucking noises. Friday suspected he just
wanted to go home. All the elderly people she had ever known always
wanted to go home once it got dark outside. He didn’t look like he’d be an
exception. But there were so many people in the room. Aside from Friday,
Ian, Bernie, the director and the minister, there were also several security
guards, ministerial assistants and gallery staff standing around watching the
professor. He obviously felt he had to do something, so he approached the
painting.
 ‘If you would be so kind?’ the professor said. A security guard was
blocking the end of the balustrade. The professor waved his hand,
indicating that he would like to pass through to the other side and get closer.
The security guard looked to the director for instruction. The director
looked mutinous, but even he, a deeply unreasonable man, could not think
of a reasonable or unreasonable reason not to let this frail old man get
closer to the thick bullet-proof glass.
The professor shuffled around and stood directly in front of the Mona
Lisa. There was just the width of the bench between him and the glass
protecting the painting. His assistant came forward and put the professor’s
equipment bag on the benchtop.
The director audibly hissed at this imposition.
The assistant opened the bag and took out several tools before handing
the professor a magnifying lens.
‘Thank you,’ said the professor politely. The assistant bobbed his head,
almost like a bow, then stepped back. The professor put the large end of the
magnifying aid to his eye, the small one to the glass and slowly moved
across the surface as he methodically looked at every tiny detail. Friday
watched, fascinated. So did everyone else in the room. It was so quiet and
the room was set up like a shrine. It felt like they were observing a religious
ritual. And, like a religious ritual, the whole process went on for a
mesmerically long time.
Uncle Bernie started to fidget. Even Ian was shifting from foot to foot,
waiting for the professor to make some sort of proclamation. Professor
Abernathy had, so far, methodically worked his way across about half the
painting with the eyepiece. His pronouncement was not likely to come any
time soon. Friday was fascinated by his meticulous process. She opened her
copy of the professor’s book and started jotting notes on the title page. The
professor kept up his inspection for nearly half an hour. No-one said
anything. They just watched the old man at work.
Eventually, Professor Abernathy stepped back, looked at the painting
from that position, then shook his head.
‘No,’ said the professor.
‘It’s not the Mona Lisa?!’ said Uncle Bernie.
‘Outrageous slander!’ accused the director.
Professor Abernathy winced. ‘No, not no, no, that’s not what I mean,’
said the professor. ‘Well . . . maybe. But in this case I mean, no, I can’t give
an opinion.’
‘What?’ said Uncle Bernie.
‘Yes!’ exclaimed the director in triumph.
‘I can’t be sure,’ said the professor. ‘Not without a closer inspection.
Even then . . .’ he trailed off, tilting his head to one side and pouting. ‘Da
Vinci was so experimental that any idiosyncratic techniques could be
evidence of forgery or simply that he was trying new things. It would take
years of minute analysis to form an opinion. Even then, it would just be that
– an opinion.’
‘But you must have a hunch,’ said Ian. ‘A sense about it. If you’ve
studied all da Vinci’s work for years, you must have a feeling whether or
not this is one of them.’
The professor took off his glasses. He cleaned the thick lenses with a
handkerchief while shaking his head and smiling. ‘I have been called here
to give my expert opinion and I have done that,’ said the professor. As he
put the glasses back on, his face and his attitude came back into focus. ‘I
can’t be sure. Not under these conditions.’ This was apparently the only
firm statement he was prepared to give.
Bernie slumped. The director of the gallery looked smug.
‘Before you go, professor,’ said Friday, stepping forward and holding
out her huge book. ‘I really enjoyed reading your book. Could you please
sign my copy for me?’
The professor looked surprised but also a little delighted to be presented
with a copy of his own work.
‘Oh, of course,’ said the professor. ‘Not many young ladies ask me for
autographs.’
‘What a shocker,’ said Ian sarcastically.
Friday kicked Ian in the foot to get him to be quiet. She held open the
book at the title page and handed it to the professor.
‘Do you have a pen?’ asked the professor.
‘Yes, but so do you,’ said Friday. ‘In your breast pocket.’
The professor tapped his chest. ‘So I do. He took out a fountain pen and
signed his name with a flourish.
‘Thank you,’ said Friday, taking back the book and turning it to herself
to read. ‘I suspected you were a fraud and you’ve just given me proof.’
‘What?’ said Uncle Bernie.
 ‘You can’t insult Professor Abernathy,’ said the minister. ‘He is the
world’s leading expert on High Renaissance masters.’
‘I know,’ said Friday. ‘His book was wonderfully insightful. But
Professor Abernathy wrote it in 1979, when he was a much younger man.
He may have been able to give an opinion then. But now, I think the only
reason he is refusing to give an opinion is because he is as blind as a bat.’
‘How dare you!’ said the professor.
‘This girl is a disgrace,’ said the director.
‘Bats aren’t actually blind,’ said Ian.
‘I know that,’ said Friday. ‘I’m sure the professor isn’t either. But
there’s a big difference between being able to see that there is a painting on
a wall and being able to identify the trajectory of the microscopic cracks in
the pigment.’
‘Friday, please explain yourself,’ pleaded Bernie. ‘Otherwise you’re
about to get yourself, and me, in a lot of trouble.’
‘I know the professor can barely see,’ said Friday, ‘because he couldn’t
even tell that he was looking through his magnifying lens the wrong way.’
Friday reached over the balustrade and picked up the eyepiece the professor
had just used. She held it up to show everyone. ‘He was looking through the
wide end. That wouldn’t magnify anything. It would make things look
smaller.’
Uncle Bernie reached for the lens and held it to his own eye. ‘Oh my
gosh, she’s right.’ He handed the lens to the minister so he could see for
himself.
‘This means nothing,’ protested the professor. ‘The girl is mistaken. I
had it in my hand. She could not have seen this.’
‘We all watched you for thirty minutes,’ said Ian. ‘You definitely held
the wide end to your eye.’
‘And it’s not the only evidence of your failing eyesight,’ said Friday. ‘I
noticed that you’re a very dapper dresser, which is not surprising, given
your great appreciation for fine arts. And yet you are wearing mismatched
shoes of different colours.’
‘It was dark when I got dressed,’ said the professor. ‘A man is allowed
to make a simple mistake like this, I think, when he is called upon in the
night by Interpol and asked to fly to another country.’
‘I suppose,’ conceded Friday. ‘But there is also the fact that you just
signed a written confession that you are blind right here, with your own
fountain pen.’ Friday opened her book and turned the title page around to
show everyone else in the room. The professor’s over-sized ink signature
stood out. But there were several handwritten lines in biro written directly
above it.
‘What you failed to notice, professor, is that I wrote, right here, the
words . . . “I Professor Abernathy declare that I am legally blind”,’ read
Friday. Everyone in the room leaned forward to get a better look. ‘I realise
that English is not your first language so, just to be sure, I wrote these
words four times over – once each in English, French, German and Latin. I
reasoned that you must be able to speak at least one, if not all those
languages, and yet you signed directly below without noticing. Only
someone with atrocious eyesight would do that. And someone with
atrocious eyesight would not be capable of properly assessing a painting’s
authenticity.’
‘Professor, is this true?’ asked the minister.
The professor looked like he wanted to deny it, but eventually he
nodded his head.
‘Why didn’t you say something?’ asked Bernie. ‘Why agree to this
whole thing?’
‘For his fee, of course,’ said the director scathingly. ‘A connoisseur can
command quite a fee for his authentication services.’
‘Has he actually been giving opinions though?’ asked Friday. ‘There is a
growing trend amongst art experts not to give opinions on valuable
paintings because they don’t want to give evidence in court.’
‘It’s true, the easiest opinion is no opinion,’ confessed the professor.
‘Giving an opinion on the authenticity of a valuable painting exposes you to
so much criticism, in the courts and in the industry periodicals. One is
forced to have the same arguments over and over again for decades. It’s
deeply unpleasant.’
‘If you won’t give an opinion,’ said Uncle Bernie, ‘who can?’
The professor looked exhausted. ‘May I sit down?’
Ian brought over the docent’s chair.
The professor’s assistant found him a bottle of water. He took a sip and
composed himself a little. Enough to explain things. ‘No-one can give an
opinion,’ began the professor. ‘It is not like the olden days, when the experts
were the experts. These days, the experts are the forgers. They have
computers and chemists, and printers and projectors. The things they can do
to replicate sixteenth-century techniques is inconceivable. It is
unrecognisable to the naked eye.’
‘So really, your eyesight is irrelevant,’ said Friday. ‘An opinion is not
proof.’
‘And you’re the leading expert,’ said Bernie. ‘So if the director won’t
let us do a chemical analysis of a paint sample, then what can we do?’
The minister sighed. ‘We shall have to ask a judge for a court order to
take a sample.’
‘Outrageous,’ spat the director. ‘It would be an outrageous desecration
of a great work of art.’
‘Why don’t you try another tack?’ said Friday.
‘You think Bernie should give up investigating art crime and go back to
being a professional ice hockey player?’ asked Ian.
‘No,’ said Friday, rolling her eyes. ‘I mean that the painting is not the
only clue. If we want to know if this forgery allegation is correct, we should
look at the allegation itself. The letter.’
‘It’s with Peruggia’s great-niece in Italy,’ said Bernie.
‘Would she let us analyse it?’ asked Friday.
‘I don’t see that she could refuse,’ said Bernie. ‘It’s not a masterpiece.
It’s evidence in a criminal investigation.’
‘You should go and see her,’ said Friday.
‘If I drive the professor back to the airport, I can get the late flight to
Rome,’ said Uncle Bernie, checking his watch. ‘But I’m meant to be
meeting the local agent here – Brianna Okeke. She’s a recent recruit. The
governor says she thinks we’ll make a good team.’
‘Really?’ said Ian. ‘Have you done something to annoy the governor?’

OceanofPDF.com
Friday and Melanie spent the next two days focused on art. It was easy to
forget that they were meant to be on the lookout for criminals. The
mystique of the Louvre collection was captivating. Listening to lectures and
drawing beautiful artworks all day was a really fun cover ID. They’d spent
a whole morning learning about Liberty Leading the People by Eugène
Delacroix. After hours of staring at the painting of a semi-naked goddess
brandishing a French flag in one hand and a bayonetted musket in the other,
as she led soldiers across the battlefield in the July Revolution, the politics
of the art world seemed unimportant.
Friday and Melanie fit in surprisingly well with the other art students.
Roberto, Adam and Sophia were all very talented, but they all had such
different styles of drawing, Melanie and Friday’s efforts didn’t stand out as
being of a different quality. Melanie had a lovely whimsical style, while
Friday was more linear and literal. The others just assumed she was a
Cubist and that the clinical style was a statement about man’s existential
inhumanity, not a lack of skill. Maybe it wasn’t. Friday began to wonder if
she had more talent than she had thought. Art was different when you were
doing it for fun, not just a compulsory component of the school syllabus.
They weren’t being marked. She could draw what she liked, how she liked,
and she enjoyed it.
Late on Wednesday afternoon, Friday and Melanie were sitting in the
lounge room working on their sketches of Liberty Leading the People when
the porter stumbled into the room. Friday’s first thought was that the poor
woman had been stabbed. She was gasping for breath and clearly
traumatised.
‘Quick, sit down,’ Friday urged, looking her over for obvious signs of
serious wounds – perhaps a carving knife sticking out of her back. The
porter was so rude to everyone it wouldn’t surprise Friday if someone did
stab her. But there were no blood patches on her clothing or weapons
extending out of any visible part of her body. After several moments of
heavy gasping, the porter lunged forward and grabbed Friday by the front of
her brown cardigan.
‘It’s okay,’ said Friday. ‘Take your time. Say what it is you need to say.’
The porter struggled to control her breathing, ‘I . . .’ she wheezed, then
dragged in a deep breath so she could say, ‘. . . hate you.’
‘What?’ asked Friday.
‘She said she hates you,’ said Melanie.
‘What did I do?’ asked Friday.
‘All the other children have telephones, but not you,’ said the porter.
‘No, you make a hard-working woman climb five storeys’ worth of stairs to
deliver messages.’
‘You’re in this state just from climbing up stairs?’ asked Friday.
‘I would murder you right now if I had the energy,’ said the porter.
‘They really need a defibrillator in the building,’ said Melanie.
‘There is one down in my office,’ said the porter.
‘That doesn’t make any sense,’ said Friday. ‘If someone is going to have
a heart attack here it’s going to be at the top of the stairs, not at the bottom.’
The porter made to lunge for Friday again but didn’t get far. It was a
very saggy couch and hard to get up once you were down.
‘What was the message?’ asked Melanie.
‘There’s someone on the phone for her,’ said the porter, pointing at
Friday.
‘Downstairs?’ asked Friday.
The porter just glared at Friday.
‘Of course, downstairs,’ realised Friday, getting to her feet. It was best
to make an exit before the porter recovered herself and made a more
effective attack on her person. ‘I don’t suppose you caught who it was?’
‘Uncle something,’ said the porter.
‘Bernie!’ said Friday. ‘Cool.’
Friday went down the stairs much more quickly than the porter had come
up them. She was soon reaching over the counter into the porter’s office and
grabbing up the phone.
‘Bernie!’
‘Friday, I’m so glad to get hold of you,’ said Bernie. ‘How’s everything
there?’
‘Fine,’ said Friday. ‘What did you find out from the great-niece?’
‘I found out that grappa gives the worst hangover,’ said Uncle Bernie.
‘She got you drunk?’ asked Friday.
‘She’s a ninety-four-year-old Italian lady,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘I got the
sense she doesn’t get many men visitors. She seemed determined to make
the most of it. She also baked me a lasagne, pinched my cheeks about two
thousand times and tried to set me up with her granddaughter.’
‘But you’re married,’ said Friday.
‘But not to an Italian girl,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘So she didn’t think that
counted.’
‘What could she tell you about the letter?’ asked Friday.
‘Not much,’ said Bernie. ‘She only found it a couple of weeks ago. The
council was installing a new low-flow cistern for her toilet. The workman
found the letter hidden behind a loose tile. She realised the significance and
took it straight to the police.’
‘Did she have anything to say about the Mona Lisa?’ asked Friday.
‘Well, that actually was interesting,’ said Bernie. ‘The last agent
Interpol sent here was Agent Okeke. She refused to try Signora Peruggia’s
essi biscuits and asked for decaffeinated coffee. This disgusted the signora,
so she pretended to be senile and didn’t tell her anything.’
‘I can believe Agent Okeke would inspire someone to fake senility
rather than talk to her,’ said Friday.
‘After three hours of drinking and eating enough cheese to make my
gall bladder explode,’ said Uncle Bernie, ‘Signora Peruggia let slip that
when she was a girl she had been told a story – that her great-uncle hid the
Mona Lisa by getting a friend to paint over it.’
 ‘What, with house paint?’ said Friday. ‘They painted the Mona Lisa
white?’
‘No, Peruggia was an artist himself, and his friends were all artists,’ said
Bernie. ‘So he got one of his artist friends to paint another painting over it.’
‘I guess that makes sense,’ said Friday. ‘An art conservator would be
able to clean off the top layer and restore the Mona Lisa later. Do you know
who this friend was?’
‘That’s the good bit,’ said Bernie. ‘His friend was a Spanish artist . . .
called Pablo.’
‘No way!’ said Friday. ‘Not Pablo Picasso?!’
‘The one and only,’ said Uncle Bernie.
‘Oh my gosh,’ said Friday. ‘Of course, they would have been
contemporaries. Was he in Paris in 1911?’
‘Yes, Pablo Picasso was actually a suspect in the original crime,’ said
Bernie. ‘The French police arrested him because they thought he had stolen
it.’
‘So if the real Mona Lisa was painted over by Picasso,’ said Friday,
‘where is that Picasso painting now?’
‘No idea,’ said Bernie. ‘The great-niece couldn’t tell me what Picasso
painted over the top – whether it was a portrait or a still life or something
else. She just knew Picasso did it.’
‘Oh,’ said Friday.
‘Exactly,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘Picasso is one of the world’s most prolific
artists. He painted thirteen thousand paintings in his lifetime. I’ve got no
idea where to start.’
‘At least, because Picasso was so famous even in his day,’ said Friday,
‘his paintings are all well documented and taken care of.’
‘But finding it will be like trying to find a needle in a haystack if the
haystack was split up and put in thousands of galleries all around the
world,’ said Uncle Bernie.
‘Not necessarily,’ said Friday, reaching across the counter of the porter’s
desk and turning the computer monitor towards herself. She pulled over the
keyboard, opened an internet browser and started typing.
‘We know the rough time frame,’ said Friday. ‘The Mona Lisa was
stolen in 1911 and returned in 1913. So it would have been painted over
during that time frame.’ Friday looked up Picasso Paintings 1911–1912.
‘There you go, that narrows the field down to two hundred and ten
paintings.’
‘That’s better,’ said Uncle Bernie, regaining a sense of optimism.
‘We can narrow it down more,’ said Friday. ‘The Mona Lisa is
renowned for being small. Although I find that to be overstated. It’s more
small-to-medium. But it is certainly small compared to the average Picasso
canvas. His paintings could be positively monumental in scale. So let’s
narrow it down by looking for a painting of approximately the same size.’
Friday scrolled through the list on the screen in front of her.
‘There really are not many that are even close,’ said Friday. ‘Everything
is bigger . . . wait! There’s one.’
‘What is it?’ asked Uncle Bernie. ‘Please don’t say it was accidentally
destroyed in a war.’
‘No,’ said Friday. ‘It’s from his Cubist period. The Musicians. Same size
and from the right time period. It’s the only painting that matches. It must
be the one.’
‘Where is it?’ asked Bernie.
‘The Museum of Modern Art in New York,’ said Friday.
‘Urgh,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.’
‘Well if it’s there at least you know it will have been well cared for,’
said Friday. ‘That’s good.’
‘But that’s a seriously fancy museum,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘They might
not want me to test it either.’
‘Yes, but it’s modern art,’ said Friday. ‘And frankly, it’s not the greatest
Picasso. I’m sure they wouldn’t begrudge you one microscopic iota of a
paint sample.’
‘I don’t want to botch this,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘I’d better fly to New
York and see for myself.’

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Friday, Melanie and their tutor group were sitting on the marble floor
sketching the Venus de Milo. It was ten minutes to nine in the morning. As
art students, they were allowed in the gallery half an hour before the general
public. This was lovely for them, but it was mainly so they wouldn’t be in
the way later in the day when the famous artworks were surrounded by
crowds. When the first tourist walked into the room where they were
sketching, they wouldn’t be allowed to sit on the floor anymore, so all five
of them were hurrying to get as much of their work done as possible before
the gallery opened.
The statue of the Venus de Milo was the second most famous exhibit in
the Louvre after the Mona Lisa. She was always surrounded by quite a
crowd. But the two-thousand-year-old Greek statue was two metres tall and
it stood on a plinth, so it was a lot easier for the crowd to see than a small-
to-medium-sized painting.
‘She looks like she’s had a difficult life,’ said Melanie as she drew.
‘Who?’ asked Friday, who was concentrating so hard on her drawing
she wasn’t sure what Melanie was talking about.
‘The Venus de Milo,’ said Melanie.
‘Well she is two thousand years old,’ said Friday.
‘Yes,’ agreed Melanie. ‘I knew she’d lost her arms. That’s probably the
most famous thing everyone knows about the statue. But when you see her
in person, her face is so nice – it’s sad to see her armless. It’s like she’s been
in a horrible car accident or been attacked by a shark.’
‘A shark wouldn’t bite off two arms,’ said Adam.
‘What?’ said Roberto, looking up from his own drawing.
 ‘You often hear of a shark biting off someone’s leg or someone’s arm,’
said Adam, ‘but you never hear of a shark biting off two limbs at the same
time.’
‘Yeah, I suppose their mouth would be full once they’ve bitten off the
first one,’ agreed Roberto.
‘This is a very morbid conversation,’ said Friday.
‘I’m glad she’s got no arms,’ said Sophia. ‘It means we don’t have to
draw her hands. I hate hands. You spend ages getting a face right, then stuff
up the hands and no-one notices the face.’
‘It’s weird, really, because when in real life do you ever notice
someone’s hands?’ said Melanie.
‘It’s probably why people can’t draw them,’ said Adam. ‘Because no-
one looks at them enough.’
In the distance they could hear someone walking hastily. The sound
carried. They turned to see a security guard half jogging down the corridor
towards them. He took a walkie talkie from his belt.
‘I’ve found them!’ the security guard said into the walkie talkie.
‘They’re in the Sully wing, room twelve.’
‘Hold on to them,’ a voice crackled back. ‘He’s on his way.’
Friday was immediately apprehensive. She didn’t like being ‘held on
to’. That was the type of thing police did when they wanted to question you,
but they didn’t have enough evidence to actually arrest you.
‘Don’t move,’ the security guard called out.
‘We weren’t moving,’ said Friday. ‘We’re just sitting here drawing.’
‘Don’t go anywhere,’ said the security guard. ‘I need you to stay right
where you are.’
Friday scowled. ‘You have no legal right to detain us,’ she said. ‘If
you’d like us to stay where we are, you should phrase it as a request.’
‘I don’t make the rules,’ said the security guard. ‘I’m just following
orders.’
Friday rolled her eyes. ‘And that always worked out in history.’
‘The director is coming,’ said the security guard. ‘You don’t want to
make him angrier.’
Now Friday was just flat out curious. The director was angry, again.
Part of her wanted to get up and leave just to make a point with the security
guard. But a larger part of her wanted to see why the director was in a flap
this time.
 There were more footsteps coming now. Not running, but definitely an
angry cadence.
‘What have you done?’ Melanie asked Friday.
‘Why do you assume it’s me?’ asked Friday.
‘Because it usually is,’ said Melanie.
‘I haven’t done anything,’ said Friday. ‘To the best of my knowledge.’
‘You!’ called the director. He was still thirty metres away and power
walking towards them, but he couldn’t wait the length of time it would take
to get to them to start yelling. ‘I will not have these outrageous disturbances
in my gallery!’
Now Friday was truly baffled. For the last half hour they’d barely made
any noise above the sound of pencils moving back and forth across paper.
‘We haven’t done anything,’ said Friday.
When the director drew nearer, his eyes settled on Sophia. ‘What are
you doing here?’ he demanded.
‘Drawing,’ said Sophia. ‘I’m in a six-week program with the Institute du
Louvre. You should know, Father. You signed me up for it.’
Melanie gasped.
Friday’s eyes gaped. ‘Your dad is the director of the Louvre?’
Sophia couldn’t bring herself to nod. She grimaced, but that was clearly
her sign of assent.
‘And you never thought to mention it?’ asked Friday.
‘Roberto and Adam were there when he dropped me off,’ said Sophia.
‘It wasn’t a big secret.’
‘And you’re in this group?!’ demanded the director. ‘With him?’ He
pointed at Roberto.
‘Yes,’ said Sophia. ‘We’re in the same apartment.’
‘We met when you dropped her off,’ said Roberto. ‘Although “met”
probably isn’t the right word. We were in the same room when she was
screaming at you.’
‘This is an outrage,’ muttered the director. ‘I will be making an official
complaint to the Art Institute about this.’ He turned his attention to Roberto.
He was seething with barely contained rage. ‘Your father has come to visit
you.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Roberto.
‘What’s wrong with that?’ asked Friday.
‘Dad’s banned from the Louvre,’ said Roberto.
 ‘That’s right,’ said the director. ‘He is not allowed inside the building, or
even within the boundaries of the Louvre complex. And yet, he is standing
outside the Tuileries Garden, surrounded by a press pack, demanding to see
his son.’
‘Why is your dad banned from the Louvre?’ asked Melanie.
Roberto looked simultaneously embarrassed and ashamed. ‘Because
he’s Giorgio.’
‘Wow!’ said Sophia. ‘Like, totally wow!’ This was the most animated
Sophia had been in the whole time they had known her. She was clearly
seeing Roberto in a whole new light.
‘Don’t say “wow” to that,’ said her father. ‘The man is a delinquent, a
vandal. There is nothing “wow” about that.’
‘The Giorgio?’ asked Adam. ‘The guerrilla artist responsible for
redefining graffiti as a high art form?’
‘He likes to think so,’ said Roberto.
‘This is exciting,’ said Melanie. ‘I love a good, dark secret. And we’ve
just uncovered two!’
‘I think it’s wow too,’ said Adam, looking at his friend with new-found
awe. ‘I liked the time he stuck “Made in Greece” labels on the Elgin
marbles. And the time he let a live bull loose in the Prado Museum in
Madrid!’
‘Was that to protest bullfighting?’ asked Melanie.
‘No, Dad doesn’t have an issue with bullfighting,’ said Roberto. ‘He did
it as an artistic statement – to say that the gallery was a load of bull . . . well
. . . you know . . . bull excrement.’
He glanced at the director. Friday noted that the director was visibly
showing several classic symptoms of high blood pressure, but she rationally
deduced that this would not be a wise time to suggest that he consult his
doctor. She turned to Roberto instead.
‘How does he get away with it?’ asked Friday. ‘Painting graffiti on all
those famous buildings and staging art stunts. Why has he never been
caught?’
‘Hi-vis,’ said Roberto. ‘If you wear hi-vis and put out bright orange
cones, people assume whatever you’re doing is official and no-one stops
you. They don’t pay attention to what you’re doing either. Sometimes
people don’t notice his work is there and he has to pretend to be a member
of the public and report a sighting to a newspaper.’
 ‘Wonderful,’ sighed Sophia.
‘He’s not allowed in any major galleries in Europe,’ said Roberto. ‘Not
since he stuck a smiley face on the statue of David.’
‘Where on the statue of David?’ asked Melanie.
Roberto looked deeply embarrassed now. ‘I’d rather not say.’
‘Oh,’ said Melanie.
‘He is accusing me of keeping his son from him,’ said the director. ‘So
if you’d be so kind, could you please go out to the gardens and have your
family reunion outside of my gallery? I do not want a pack of slavering
journalists loitering on my doorstep. They lower the tone of the
establishment.’
‘Your father is really good at insulting people,’ Melanie observed to
Sophia.
‘I know,’ said Sophia. ‘I think that’s a large part of why he isn’t married
to my mother anymore.’
‘I haven’t seen Dad in ages,’ said Roberto as he got to his feet. ‘Come
on, I’ll introduce you to him. And we can find out what he wants.’

As they approached the Arc du Carousell that marked the border between
the Louvre and the Tuileries Garden beyond, Friday could see a large scrum
of journalists shouting questions and photographers snapping flash
photographs. It was hard to make out who they were shouting to or what
they were shouting about. There was evidently someone standing in the
shadows under the arch. Then he stepped out into the light. It was Giorgio.
He looked larger than life in a lavender zoot suit with wide lapels and baggy
trousers.
‘Ah, Roberto,’ said Giorgio. ‘Mio bambino! So good to see you.’ He
threw his arms wide and grabbed Roberto in a big bear hug. He even made
bear-like noises and pinched his son’s cheeks. It was the most theatrical hug
Friday had ever seen.
‘Papà,’ said Roberto. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Yes,’ snapped the director. ‘What are you doing here? You are not
allowed on Louvre land.’ The director glared at Giorgio’s feet.
 ‘Oh, of course,’ said Giorgio in ostentatious apology. ‘I’m so sorry. I’m
so excited to see my boy, I forget myself.’ Giorgio grabbed Roberto by the
wrist and pulled him the short distance through the arch to where the
journalists were waiting, so he was no longer standing on Louvre grounds.
‘Ladies and gentlemen of the press,’ said Giorgio, clamping his arm
around Roberto’s shoulders. ‘I give you my beautiful boy!’
Cameras flashed and journalists started barking questions at Roberto.
‘Are the rumours true?’
‘Is it a fake?’
‘Is the Mona Lisa still on display?’
‘What is this?’ demanded the director, walking through the archway
himself. He turned on Giorgio for answers. ‘What are they asking? Why did
you bring them here?’
‘I’m concerned for my son,’ said Giorgio with a shrug. ‘I see this report
on the internet . . .’ Giorgio took out his phone and opened it to the New
York Times app. ‘They are saying that the Mona Lisa is a fake. I’m
devastated. My boy, he comes to study here from an institution that houses
a fraud. A great fraud on the people of France and the whole of Europe.’
The director’s mouth hung open. He looked like he was going to
explode with rage. ‘What?!’ he bellowed.
Giorgio turned to address the journalists more than the director. ‘The
curator at the Museum of Contemporary Art in New York has revealed just
one hour ago that they have reason to believe that a Picasso painting in his
gallery is, in fact, da Vinci’s great masterpiece, the Mona Lisa. And that the
painting inside this building . . .’ He gestured to Louvre behind him. Friday
could instantly see why he’d chosen this spot for the press conference. It
was a beautiful view of the Louvre complex.
‘This “Mona Lisa” . . .’ Giorgio used his fingers to make air quote
marks as he said this, ‘. . . is a fake!’
There were gasps, flash photos and more shouted questions.
‘How dare you! I’ll have you . . .’ spluttered the director.
‘Which begs the question,’ continued Giorgio. He was a big man, who
spoke from the diaphragm, and his voice drowned out the director. It was
even amplified by the stone arc surrounding him. It was almost as if he’d
hired a sound engineer to figure out the exact right spot to stand to make
everyone listen to him. ‘How many other artworks in the Louvre are fakes
too?! Is this the great French gallery of knockoffs? Have they been selling
their real artworks to the highest bidder?’
‘You are a disgrace,’ yelled the director.
‘No, you, sir, director of the gallery,’ accused Giorgio, ‘you are the
disgrace. As is your entire institution. I call for an immediate inquiry into
the outrageous fraud that has been perpetuated here.’
‘There is no . . .’ began the director.
But Giorgio talked over him again. ‘But now I must spend time with my
son. The father-son bond is so strong. I must support him in this difficult
time.’
The journalists started lunging forward en masse and yelling their
questions, but two burly bodyguards stepped forward, shielding Giorgio as
he hustled Roberto into a waiting limousine, which pulled away.
‘Wow,’ said Friday.
‘That was amazing,’ said Melanie.
‘Really, it was practically a work of performance art in its own right,’
said Friday.
The director had pulled out his phone and was striding back to the
gallery barking orders into it in French.
‘Papa,’ Sophia called after him. But he didn’t even hear.
‘What do you think happened?’ asked Melanie.
‘I’m guessing things haven’t gone well for Bernie in New York,’ said
Friday.

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Friday and Melanie decided it would be best if they didn’t go back to the
Louvre that day. They didn’t want to get in a confrontation with the director.
‘What do you want to do?’ asked Melanie. ‘We’re in Paris. We could do
anything. Have you ever been up the Eiffel Tower?’
‘I haven’t got time to go and stand on the top of a tall architectural
structure,’ said Friday. ‘I need to get to the bottom of this mystery. And I
need to talk to Bernie. I want to go back to the Art Institute so I can call
him.’
Melanie sighed. ‘I don’t know how you can be so smart and yet
constantly forget that mobile phone technology has been invented.’ Melanie
took her phone out of her pocket and handed it to Friday. ‘Just call him
now.’
‘But it’s long distance,’ said Friday. ‘He’s in New York.’
‘I think my phone can handle that,’ said Melanie. She opened her
contacts and selected Bernie’s number, hit the green button and handed it to
Friday.
Friday held it to her ear and listened to it ring. ‘He could be on a plane
or in a subway. Somewhere there’s no reception.’
‘Yes, he could,’ agreed Melanie.
‘I think Highcrest has scarred me,’ said Friday. ‘It still feels naughty to
be using a phone. Like I should be hiding it from adults.’
‘That’ll be another thing you can speak to your psychiatrist about when
you inevitably end up in therapy,’ said Melanie.
‘Hello, Melanie?’ Uncle Bernie’s voice came over the phone.
‘No, it’s me, Friday, your niece,’ said Friday.
 ‘Oh, thank goodness. I wanted to talk to you, but I wasn’t sure how,
short of hiring a sky writer to spell out the words “call your uncle” over the
skies of Paris,’ said Bernie. ‘Have you heard what happened over here?’
‘Well, I can guess from what just happened here,’ said Friday. ‘Giorgio
just ambushed the director of the Louvre, announced that the Mona Lisa
was a forgery and suggested that the whole collection was full of fakes.’
‘Oh no,’ said Bernie. ‘This couldn’t be worse.’
‘Where are you?’ asked Friday.
‘Still in New York,’ said Bernie. ‘I’m at JFK airport trying to get a flight
back to France. It’s been a disaster.’
‘What happened?’ asked Friday.
‘Well, the director of the gallery here seemed really nice,’ said Bernie.
‘A really friendly fellow, very sympathetic to my troubles in Paris. But
when I explained the situation – that the Mona Lisa might be hidden under
one of his paintings – his face lit up. He couldn’t have been more excited.’
‘Why?’ asked Friday.
‘He doesn’t care about proving the authenticity of the Mona Lisa,’ said
Bernie. ‘He just wants to get visitors into his gallery. The rumour that the
Mona Lisa is under his painting is far better for him than whatever the truth
might be.’
‘So he didn’t let you test it?’ said Friday.
‘No,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘He delayed me in his office so he could call in
a bunch of journalists, then had security throw me out of the building. It
was all caught on camera and sent to every news service so the story would
get maximum coverage.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Friday.
‘He’s been on every talk show and radio station in New York that would
have him,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘Which is all of them! Everyone here is
talking about how the Mona Lisa in Paris is a fake. People are flooding
social media with selfies of themselves with the Picasso, saying it’s the real
Mona Lisa.’
‘This is pretty much exactly what Interpol and the French government
didn’t want,’ said Friday.
‘I’m going to get sacked,’ said Bernie.
‘We can’t let that happen,’ said Friday. ‘If you get sacked, Agent Okeke
will be in charge of the case. If things escalated this quickly for you, they’ll
degenerate into World War Three for her.’
 ‘I’ve got to get back there,’ said Bernie.
‘We need to test the painting,’ said Friday.
‘Which painting?’ asked Bernie.
‘The Mona Lisa in the Louvre,’ said Friday. ‘If we can prove it’s
authentic, all this will go away.’
‘Interpol will have to persuade the magistrate to get the painting tested,’
said Bernie. ‘I need to hang up. I’ve got calls to make before I get on my
flight.’
Friday had been walking with Melanie back towards their dorm the
whole time that she’d been talking on the phone with Bernie. As they turned
the corner into their street, they saw a big black limousine parked outside
their building.
‘Is that Giorgio’s limo?’ asked Friday.
‘He must be dropping Roberto off,’ said Melanie.
When they opened the front door of the Institute, Friday was shocked to
see the porter smiling and giggling. She was almost unrecognisable from
the grumpy woman who had been rude to them every day since they had
arrived. They soon realised what the porter was smiling about. Giorgio was
standing on a chair and drawing a picture on the wall. He was using a
sharpie to draw a cartoon of the Mona Lisa. Roberto was sitting on the
staircase, slouched, with his head in his hands. He was trying to look bored
but he couldn’t hide his embarrassment at his dad’s antics.
‘Are you allowed to do that?’ Friday asked as Giorgio’s pen flew across
the wall, honing his picture.
‘My dear friend Patricia has given me permission,’ said Giorgio. He
looked down at the porter, blew a kiss and waggled his eyebrows at her. The
porter giggled.
‘Ew,’ said Melanie.
Roberto just covered his eyes and shook his head in despair.
As Giorgio was finishing up his drawing, he bent over to write a caption
underneath . . .

I AM THE REAL MONA LISA.

‘What do you think?’ he asked.

Friday considered the giant cartoon. It was only black pen on a dirty
white wall, but he had captured the essence of the famous painting and
something more. The Mona Lisa’s already inscrutable expression was now
a little bit more sarcastic. She seemed to be in on the joke. ‘It’s good,’ said
Friday.
‘I know,’ said Giorgio, jumping down from his chair. ‘Thank you.’ He
returned the sharpie to the porter, then took her hand and bent over to kiss
it.
The porter gasped.
Roberto groaned like he was physically in pain.
‘Oh no,’ said Melanie. ‘Now she’s never going to want to wash that
hand, which is so unhygienic for someone whose job it is to hand over
keys.’
‘It was good to see you, Roberto,’ said Giorgio. ‘Maybe we will catch
up again at Easter, yes?’
‘That’s it?’ said Roberto. ‘You’re leaving Paris already.’
‘I’m a busy man,’ said Giorgio. ‘You know that.’
‘He’s obfuscating,’ said Melanie.
‘What?’ said Roberto.
‘Melanie has a bizarrely accurate ability to tell if someone is lying,’ said
Friday. ‘Obfuscating is a variety of lying. To obfuscate is to mislead
someone by withholding a truth. In this case, you asked your father if he
was leaving Paris. He said he was busy, implying that he was leaving Paris.
But he did not actually say that.’
‘So you’re staying in Paris but you’re not going to have time to see me
again?’ said Roberto. ‘I get it.’
‘Come now,’ said Giorgio, grabbing Roberto by the back of the neck
and kissing him on the head. ‘You’re a big boy, you don’t need your papà to
hold your hand, do you?’
‘No, Papà,’ said Roberto.
‘Of course not,’ Giorgio said, ruffling Roberto’s hair, before turning to
call out to the porter, who had returned to her little office. ‘Ciao, bella!’
They couldn’t see the porter but they could hear her giggled response.
Then Giorgio swished out of the lobby. Roberto looked crestfallen.
‘At least he came by to visit,’ said Melanie.
‘He came up and looked at my work,’ said Roberto defensively.
‘I’m sure he was proud,’ said Melanie. ‘You draw beautifully.’
Roberto looked a little bit less certain. ‘He said I need to practise my
line work. But still, he came to look. He’s never asked to see my work
before.’
‘We’re staying away from the Louvre for the rest of the day,’ said
Melanie. ‘Do you want to come out with us and do something? We could
climb the Eiffel Tower, or the Arc de Triomphe.’
‘Or we could go to the Marie Curie Museum of Radiation,’ suggested
Friday.
Roberto just looked at her. ‘Is she serious?’ he asked Melanie.
‘Sadly, yes,’ said Melanie.
‘If there’s no Louvre today, I might as well go to work at the pizza
shop,’ said Roberto. ‘I’m not going to be able to concentrate now.’
But when they got up to their apartment, Roberto couldn’t find his
uniform for the pizza shop, so in the end he did end up tagging along with
the girls. He and Melanie outvoted Friday. They didn’t go to the Marie
Curie Museum. They went to the modern art gallery, the Musée d’Orsay,
instead. Roberto wanted to see their famous collection of Degas paintings
and Melanie wanted to eat the famous cheesecake in the museum
restaurant. So that is what they did.
Friday found herself really enjoying the afternoon. It’s hard not to enjoy
yourself when you’ve just eaten a beautiful French dessert, and the Musée
d’Orsay was more relaxing than the Louvre. It was totally different in every
way. Whereas the Louvre was a complex array of rooms, many of them
underground, the Musée d’Orsay had been a train station. So it was one
giant, light-filled room with a very high ceiling. The art was lovely but best
of all – so were the couches.
The museum had one leather couch in particular that was huge and
shaped sort of like a giant octopus spread out over a rock, which sounds bad
but was actually extraordinarily comfortable. And it was right in front of a
massive window that overlooked Paris. It was a beautiful spot. The three of
them lay back on the couch in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.
Friday pondering the mystery of the Mona Lisa, Roberto pondering the
mystery of his father’s behaviour and Melanie fast asleep – she could never
resist a nap and it was a very comfortable couch.
Eventually, Friday closed her eyes and her mind started to drift. She
wasn’t going to sleep. She was drifting deeper and deeper into her own
thoughts, running through all the evidence, the possibilities and the motives
of this strange situation. But no conclusion was forthcoming. She knew the
solution was there, she just couldn’t quite bring it into focus. It was
frustrating.
Friday opened her eyes, planning to suggest they head home. But
Roberto wasn’t sitting on the couch anymore. He was standing in front of
the big picture window, smiling as a girl took his photo. It took a second
before Friday realised – it was the girl. The pretty one they’d seen hacking
phones in the Mona Lisa room. She was wearing a different outfit but she
was so pretty and her smile so charming and she had that unicorn phone
case, there was no mistaking her. She was conning Roberto.
‘Thank you,’ said Roberto as the girl handed back his phone. Friday sat
frozen, trying to figure out what to do. The girl was walking away. Agent
Okeke had told her to do nothing. But she couldn’t just sit there as her
friend got robbed. The pretty girl was halfway down the corridor and about
to walk past the women’s bathroom. This gave Friday an idea. She took off
running until she bumped into the girl, jostling her.
‘So sorry,’ said Friday, barely pausing. ‘I really need to go.’ She
disappeared into the nearby bathroom.
Once inside, Friday counted to twenty before she emerged again.
Melanie and Roberto were waiting outside.
‘What was that about?’ asked Roberto. ‘You just slammed into Emily.’
‘Emily?’ asked Friday. ‘You got her name?’
‘Sure,’ said Roberto. ‘I should have asked her out. She was pretty.’
‘I know you’re clumsy,’ Melanie said to Friday. ‘But even you don’t
normally run down a corridor and bash into someone.’
‘Which way did Emily go?’ asked Friday.
‘Towards the exit,’ said Roberto. ‘Why do you care?’
‘She’s the thief from the Mona Lisa room,’ said Friday. ‘A very clever
thief. Come on, let’s follow her.’

Once they were outside, it was easy to spot Emily across the big open
forecourt of the Musée d’Orsay. They hurried after her as she walked down
the pathway beside the river. After a couple of hundred metres, she turned
into a side street.
‘Where do you think she’s going?’ asked Melanie.
 ‘Maybe she has to report to someone,’ said Friday. ‘A lot of pickpockets
work in gangs. It might seem low level, but in major cities like Paris, petty
theft targeting tourists is an organised crime.’
They hadn’t been walking for long when Emily turned into a restaurant.
Friday started to follow her inside, but Melanie grabbed her arm. ‘What’s
wrong?’ asked Friday.
‘This is Garance,’ said Melanie.
‘So?’ said Friday. She looked up. They were standing outside a black-
fronted restaurant with colourful jars of pickles lit up in the windows.
‘It’s a Michelin-star restaurant,’ said Melanie. ‘You can’t just walk in.
You have to have a reservation.’
‘Emily just walked in,’ said Friday.
‘Perhaps she has a reservation,’ said Roberto.
‘Perhaps she’s robbing the people inside right now,’ said Friday. ‘We
need to intervene. Come on.’
It was early and the restaurant was very quiet. They spotted Emily
sitting by herself and headed over. Friday, Melanie and Roberto slipped into
the seats around her table.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Emily. She recognised Roberto. ‘Can I help
you?’
‘How are you planning to pay for your meal?’ asked Friday.
‘What?’ asked Emily.
Friday ignored her question. ‘Were you planning to use cash? I doubt it,
no-one uses cash anymore, so I’m guessing – card. And no young person
literally carries a physical bank card. I’ll bet you’re intending to use a
digital card on your phone.’
Emily looked perplexed. ‘Sure,’ she said. She reached under the table.
‘If you’re reaching for your phone in your pocket . . .’ said Friday, ‘. . .
don’t bother. It’s not there. Because it’s in my pocket.’ Friday pulled
Emily’s phone, with its distinctive unicorn case, out of her own pocket. ‘I
pick-pocketed you when I bumped in to you at the museum.’
‘Oh, well done, Friday!’ said Melanie. ‘I didn’t see that coming.’
‘Give that back!’ demanded Emily.
‘I will,’ said Friday. ‘As soon as you transfer my friend Roberto’s
money back to his account.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Emily.
 Friday raised her eyebrows. ‘Really? Then why do you have photos of
so many faces on your phone?’ She opened the photo app and started
swiping through photo after photo of different people’s faces, taken looking
up from chest height.
‘What do you want?’ asked Emily.
‘Roberto, check your bank balance,’ said Friday. ‘See how much she
took from you.’
Roberto opened his own phone and looked. ‘Um . . . thirty-nine euros.’
This surprised Friday. ‘Is that all?’
‘I’m not a monster,’ said Emily.
‘You steal from tourists,’ said Melanie.
‘No, I don’t,’ said Emily. ‘I charge a fee for taking their picture.’
‘A fee they don’t agree to,’ said Friday.
‘Hey,’ said Roberto, still looking at his phone. ‘It is a good picture. I
look great.’ He showed Friday and Melanie. He did look fabulous standing
in the light in front of the window, with a relaxed and natural smile on his
face. His rippling forearms rested carefully on the ledge.
‘There you go,’ said Emily. ‘I provide a service.’
‘But why steal?’ asked Friday.
They were interrupted as the waiter brought over a covered dish and
placed it in front of Emily. He lifted the lid to reveal a beautifully presented
plate of beef tartare with caviar and julienned potatoes.
‘For this,’ said Emily, totally without shame.
‘Food?’ asked Friday in disbelief.
‘We all must eat,’ said Emily.
‘Not in Michelin-star restaurants,’ said Friday.
‘Cuisine is culture,’ said Emily. ‘I’m supporting the arts.’
Friday cocked her head disbelievingly.
‘Look,’ said Emily. ‘I’m a third-year medical student at the Sorbonne. A
scholarship just covers my tuition, my grant barely covers my rent, I work
every holiday doing data entry ten hours a day to cover my food and living
expenses. I don’t have spare time because I have to study for exams and
intern at the hospital. This is my only luxury. My only reprieve from work
and instant-pot noodles. If I didn’t do this, I would go mad.’ She picked up
her knife and fork. ‘I would offer to buy you lunch, but I only took four
photos today.’ She took a bite, closed her eyes to enjoy it. When she opened
her eyes, Friday was still staring at her.
 ‘Lots of people struggle,’ said Friday. ‘It’s no excuse to steal.’
‘So is this a bust?’ asked Emily. She was trying to look defiant, but
Friday could see she was bluffing. Friday didn’t blame her. Jail was awful.
Emily should be scared. ‘No, I want your help,’ said Friday.
‘Are you blackmailing me?’ asked Emily.
‘No,’ said Friday, ‘I’m negotiating an agreement where we’ll both be
happy.’
‘And you think I’m a con artist,’ scoffed Emily.
Friday decided to ignore this observation. ‘How much time do you
spend in the Mona Lisa room at the Louvre?’
‘A lot,’ admitted Emily.
‘That’s an odd choice of place to run a scam when there is so much
security,’ said Friday.
‘Security guards never notice me,’ said Emily. ‘No major artwork has
ever been stolen by a twenty-one-year-old girl. And it’s the perfect place to
do what I do, because the tourists there are especially unobservant. They’re
overwhelmed to be in the presence of such a famous object. They don’t
notice anything.’
‘I get it. The Mona Lisa is your misdirection,’ said Friday. ‘Like a
magician clicking his fingers at a key moment. The Mona Lisa makes your
target focus on the wrong thing.’
Emily smiled. ‘Exactly.’
‘You must know the ins-and-outs of the human behaviour in that room
better than anyone,’ said Friday.
‘Probably,’ agreed Emily.
‘Have you noticed anything strange there in the past few weeks?’ asked
Friday. ‘Not a specific thing necessarily, but perhaps unusual patterns of
behaviour.’
Emily took another bite while she considered this. ‘Not really, the
tourists are always much the same types. Honeymooners, retirees, art
students . . . People are fighting, people are bored, people are overwhelmed,
people are underwhelmed . . . They’re all different, but they’re the same
types of different over and over again.’ Emily picked up another piece of
steak and lifted it to her mouth, but then paused. ‘There were new security
guards this week.’
‘What?’ said Friday.
 She had to wait for her answer while Emily chewed. ‘One of the
security guards fell asleep on duty last week.’
‘But the security guards stand up,’ said Melanie.
‘They do this week,’ said Emily. ‘Last week they had chairs.’ She
pointed to her phone on the table next to Friday. ‘If you scroll through my
pictures, you’ll see. I snapped a shot of him dozing off. I thought it was
funny. The director came down and yelled at the whole team. And this week
there are totally new security guards.’
‘He fired all of them?!’ said Friday.
‘Ahuh, he was angry,’ said Emily. ‘It suits me. The new ones aren’t as
experienced, so they’re less likely to notice what I’m doing.’
‘What does this mean?’ asked Melanie.
‘I’m not sure,’ said Friday. She didn’t like being perplexed. ‘But it can’t
be good. We’d better get back to the dorm.’
‘So that’s it?’ asked Emily as she watched them stand up to leave.
‘You really should give up a life of crime,’ said Friday.
‘Why?’ asked Emily.
‘Because it’s wrong,’ said Friday.
‘Besides,’ said Roberto, still admiring the picture she took of him.
‘You’re really good at photography. You should seriously consider pursuing
that as a career. You don’t have to trick people. Plenty of people would pay
more than thirty-nine euros for a portrait this good.’

When they eventually got back to the dorm, the whole building was buzzing
with gossip. Everyone was talking about the Mona Lisa. People were taking
selfies with the Giorgio cartoon in the lobby. Up and down the staircase,
students were chattering. In their apartment, Sophia and Adam were glued
to the television as there was rolling coverage of people turning up at the
Louvre with pictures they claimed to be ‘The Real Mona Lisa’. There were
pictures of dogs playing poker, Elvis in Las Vegas, finger paintings by
three-year-olds. Everyone was joining in the fun and claiming that their
painting was the real Mona Lisa.
Social media was even worse. Instagram was flooded with people
claiming to have identified fakes. There were photoshopped images of Girl
with a Pearl Earring by Vermeer, with the girl wearing the pearl earring
through her nose. The Kiss by Klimt with the kisser wearing an apple
watch. And Starry Night by Van Gogh, with a space shuttle flying across the
night sky. The whole world was enjoying the joke at the Louvre’s expense.
‘Father is going to be so angry,’ said Sophia. She didn’t seem too sorry
about this. She was obviously quite angry with her father herself.
Suddenly, someone Friday knew appeared on the news coverage. The
station had cut to a press conference at the National Assembly house. The
minister for the arts was going to address the journalists.
‘Turn it up,’ said Friday.
The minister stepped up onto the podium. ‘Mesdames et messieurs,’ he
began. ‘There has been no evidence proving the wild accusations made
today about the authenticity of the Mona Lisa. The Louvre has a rightful
reputation for being the greatest art museum in the world. Our government
will do everything in its power to protect that reputation. We will not allow
foreign influence to besmirch our great national heritage. Thank you.’
Journalists started shouting out questions but the minister ignored them
all. He turned and walked away. The coverage cut back to the television
studio.
‘What does that mean?’ asked Melanie.
‘I think it means Bernie’s bad day just got worse,’ said Friday.

OceanofPDF.com
They were still sitting watching the TV coverage when Kate emerged from
her room. She was wearing a smock, but somehow she had paint smeared
over most of her clothing anyway.
‘Ah, Friday,’ she said, sticking the dry end of her paintbrush in her hair
and rifling through her pockets. ‘There’s another note for you.’ She
eventually found the note in the back pocket of her jeans. ‘Sorry, I got some
paint on it.’ She handed the folded up piece of paper over to Friday.
‘Wasn’t it pinned to my door this time?’ asked Friday.
‘It was,’ said Kate. ‘But I thought it would be easier if I just gave it to
you.’
‘You do know it’s rude to read other people’s mail?’ asked Friday.
‘It’s so rare for a person to leave an actual physical note,’ said Kate. ‘It
would be weird not to check it out. It’s like a historical artefact from a
bygone age.’
Friday opened the note.

Meet me tonight. Same time. SA.

‘SA?’ asked Melanie.

‘Secret admirer,’ said Kate.
‘Or silly artist,’ suggested Adam.
‘That’s tautological,’ said Sophia. ‘All artists are silly.’
‘It’s the same handwriting as last time,’ said Kate. ‘So it’s definitely the
secret admirer setting up a date again.’
‘Abbreviation, it’s so romantic,’ said Melanie.
 ‘Do you want to come?’ Friday asked Melanie.
‘On a date with you and your mystery man?’ said Melanie. ‘I don’t
think so. Besides, it’s at nine thirty. That’s after my bedtime. I don’t do
awake at that hour.’

Later that night, Friday met Ian on the fourth floor landing of the fire
escape.
‘What’s happening?’ she asked.
‘Interpol have flown in the world’s leading forensic art scientist,’ said
Ian. ‘The magistrate has issued a court order for the Mona Lisa to be tested.
They’re setting up a lab so it can happen first thing tomorrow.’
‘A lab?’ said Friday, her eyes lighting up.
‘I knew you’d react that way,’ said Ian. ‘So do you want to come and
see it?’

When Friday and Ian arrived at the National Police Institute of Criminal
Research, Uncle Bernie and Agent Okeke were sitting outside in the
corridor.
‘What’s happening?’ asked Friday.
‘We’ve been kicked out,’ said Bernie. ‘Dr Smeaton said we were
making him nervous.’
‘Can you please talk more softly out there?’ a voice called from inside
the laboratory.
‘What’s the problem?’ whispered Friday.
‘He’s scared of Agent Okeke,’ said Uncle Bernie.
Friday looked at Agent Okeke. Friday found her frightening too. ‘What
happened?’ she asked.
‘Dr Smeaton misunderstood Agent Okeke’s role at the organisation,’
said Uncle Bernie.
‘In what way?’ asked Friday.
 ‘He asked me to fetch him a cup of coffee,’ said Agent Okeke.
‘Oh,’ said Friday.
‘He’s an idiot,’ said Agent Okeke.
‘He made a mistake,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘Unfortunately, Agent Okeke
clarified his error by showing him her gun and threatening to use it on him.’
‘He’ll think twice about patronising a woman of colour next time,’ said
Agent Okeke.
‘I’d be surprised if he has the courage to speak to any woman ever
again,’ said Uncle Bernie.
‘That’s his problem, not mine,’ said Agent Okeke.
‘Actually, it’s all of our problem,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘We’ve just flown
in the world’s leading scientific expert in analysing art, and he refuses to be
in the same room with us.’
‘What’s he got against you?’ asked Friday.
‘I’m not sure,’ said Bernie. ‘I think it’s just my size. Apparently I
remind him of a criminal he once testified against. He seems very
concerned about death threats being carried out.’
‘You should go in and talk to him,’ Ian told Friday. ‘You’re fluent in
science nerd. And you’re small and unthreatening.’
‘Thanks,’ said Friday sarcastically.
‘No, that’s a good idea,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘You’re wearing your brown
cardigan. No-one could be scared of someone wearing a cardigan that ugly.’
Friday turned the handle and let herself in to the laboratory. Europeans
use the word “laboratory” differently to English-speaking people. They
have gelato laboratories and chocolate laboratories and jam laboratories, but
really they’re just the backrooms of shops where things get made. This
laboratory was more what an English speaker would refer to as an office.
There was a large white table in the middle of the room, with bright
lights on extendable arms overhead and two computers on a desk along the
wall, as well as several harder-to-identify pieces of high-tech equipment.
Friday recognised a centrifuge and a microscope but aside from that, this
could just as easily have been a photographer’s workspace, not a criminal
investigation lab.
A short, thin man was bent over the table adjusting the equipment. He
was very neatly dressed in chinos, a collared shirt, a tie and a red sweater.
He looked like his mother had dressed him for attending church or lunch
with the in-laws. It was a studied level of informality.
 ‘What do you want?’ he asked. There was a note of fear in his voice.
‘Nothing,’ said Friday. ‘I think we need to know if you’re all right and if
you have everything you need to test the Mona Lisa tomorrow.’
‘All the equipment I requested is here,’ said Dr Smeaton nervously. ‘But
can you guarantee my safety?’
‘This is a police building,’ said Friday. ‘You can’t get any safer than
that.’
‘But can I trust the police?’ asked Dr Smeaton.
‘We’re investigating art crime,’ said Friday. ‘I don’t think your average
police officer is concerned about what you’re doing here.’
‘I just want to go home,’ complained Dr Smeaton. ‘I retired from
criminal work. That’s the whole reason I went to work at Sotheby’s. To get
away from all the nastiness. I don’t mind saying what a painting is worth
for an art auction, but saying whether or not a painting is a fake – that just
makes everyone so angry.’
‘I can understand that,’ said Friday.
‘No, you really can’t,’ said Dr Smeaton. ‘People think of art and they
think of pretty paintings that look nice hanging on the wall. But the people
who own art are often the type of people concerned with the easiest way to
smuggle large amounts of cash-equivalent goods over a border so they can
buy arms or drugs or goodness knows what. Those people are very
unpleasant when they’re angry.’
‘There’s no-one like that in this case,’ said Friday. ‘It’s a cold case. A
crime that took place over a hundred years ago. There’s no-one left alive to
be angry with you.’
Dr Smeaton shook his head. ‘But will I be left alive?’
‘Yes,’ said Friday. ‘No-one here is a threat to you.’
Dr Smeaton came closer and lowered his voice. ‘What about that
woman agent?’
‘Agent Okeke?’ asked Friday.
Dr Smeaton nodded.
‘You know,’ said Friday. ‘If you just learn her name and job title, that
will go a long way to ending any hostility on her side.’
‘I used to irritate my ex-wife too,’ said Dr Smeaton.
‘A lot of men irritate their wives,’ said Friday. ‘It’s the same deal. The
things you dismiss as inconsequential like job titles, anniversaries, picking
up socks, they don’t see the same way.’
 ‘Goodness,’ said Dr Smeaton mopping his brow. ‘Inorganic chemistry is
so much simpler.’
‘I know,’ sympathised Friday. ‘So, are you all ready to analyse the
inorganic chemistry of the Mona Lisa?’
‘Well, the equipment is all set up,’ said Dr Smeaton. ‘Inspector Barnes
has asked me to test a sample from the letter as a case study to make sure
it’s all working.’ He pointed to his microscope, where an old piece of
writing paper was laid out for examination.
‘That’s a good idea,’ said Friday. ‘What results did you get on the
letter?’
‘It’s one hundred per cent authentic,’ said Dr Smeaton. ‘The paper stock
is early twentieth century and the ink is a type commonly used in Italy in
the pre-World War One era. I sent a scan to a handwriting expert at
Cambridge. She has confirmed it matches with other samples of Peruggia’s
writing.’
‘That’s a shame,’ said Friday. ‘It would all be so much easier if the letter
was a fake and we could dismiss the whole thing as a fairy tale.’
‘You’d better give the letter back to Inspector Barnes for his files,’ said
Dr Smeaton, taking the letter out from under his microscope, putting it in an
evidence bag and handing it to Friday. She glanced at the slip of paper that
had triggered their whole investigation and, as soon as she did, she froze.
‘What is it?’ asked Dr Smeaton.
‘This letter,’ said Friday. ‘It’s a fake!’
Friday rushed out into the corridor to show Uncle Bernie and Agent
Okeke.
‘It’s a fake!’ she exclaimed.
‘No, that can’t be right,’ said Dr Smeaton, following her anxiously. ‘I
guarantee – the paper, the ink, the handwriting – it’s all authentic.’
‘Yes, but the content isn’t,’ said Friday. ‘A forger can get hold of a one-
hundred-year-old sheet of paper and turn-of-the-century Italian ink. They
can spend months learning to copy someone’s handwriting. This letter could
be one hundred per cent authentic chemically and stylistically and yet still
be a forgery.’
‘Well, yes, I suppose. Yes, that’s true,’ conceded Dr Smeaton. ‘Forgers
are ingenious. They do go to these lengths, but usually that’s to forge a
work of art, not to forge a letter about a work of art.’
 ‘I know this is definitely a forgery from what it says,’ said Friday. ‘Look
. . .’ She held the letter up for Bernie to see.
‘What am I looking at?’ he asked.
Friday pointed out one line. ‘This bit.’

The guards were too busy chatting up a pretty girl to pay any
attention to me.

‘Well, the French are very romantic,’ said Ian. ‘That’s not so shocking.’
‘Not the sentence, the word – chatting,’ said Friday. ‘From the verb to
chat.’
‘Still not getting it,’ said Uncle Bernie.
‘“Chat” did not exist as a verb until after World War One,’ said Friday.
‘Before then, a chat was just a word for a louse – an insect you get on your
clothes and skin if you’re dirty for prolonged periods of time. During World
War One, the soldiers in the trenches were infested with lice. When they
stood around talking to each other they would pick chats off each other. So
they started to call those conversations “chats”. So the words “to chat”,
“chatroom”, “to chat up” – none of that was in use in 1911.’
‘That can’t be right,’ said Uncle Bernie.
‘It’s an established historical fact,’ said Friday. ‘Lots of words we
commonly use now did not exist before World War One.’
‘So this letter is a forgery?’ said Uncle Bernie.
‘Yes,’ said Friday. ‘A brilliant, carefully constructed forgery.’
‘Then this whole thing about the Mona Lisa being fake,’ said Uncle
Bernie. ‘It’s just a hoax?’
‘This is a lot of trouble to go to, to start a rumour,’ said Agent Okeke.
‘Why would anyone do that?’
‘I’ve got to talk to the minister,’ said Bernie. ‘All the arrangements have
been made to bring the Mona Lisa over here for testing tomorrow. We need
to call that off.’
‘Thank goodness,’ said Dr Smeaton. He slumped down on one of the
chairs in the corridor and pressed his hand over his heart. ‘The thought of
being responsible for testing the Mona Lisa was giving me chest pains.’
Uncle Bernie took out his phone and started dialling.
‘His phone will be turned off,’ said Agent Okeke.
‘What?’ asked Uncle Bernie.
 ‘The minister is at the opera. It’s the premiere of a new production of
Carmen tonight,’ said Agent Okeke. ‘It’s France’s greatest opera. As
minister for the arts, he will be expected to be there and if he’s at the opera
he will have his phone turned off.’
‘At least we know where he is,’ said Uncle Bernie, putting his phone
back in his pocket. ‘Let’s get over there quickly. We’ll try to catch him in
the intermission.’

Luckily, Agent Okeke drove like a lunatic, so they were across the river and
screeching to a halt outside the Paris Opera in less than eight minutes.
Agent Okeke clearly enjoyed yelling at the armed police running to
intercept them while waving her Interpol ID in their faces.
‘This is official government business,’ she yelled. ‘Protect our car while
we go inside.’ It was such a strange demand that the gendarmes did not
protest as she strode past them and in through the main entrance, Bernie,
Friday and Ian following in her wake. Once inside, things became very
anticlimactic.
The ushers were not as easy to intimidate as the police officers. They
were used to having extremely rich and extremely pompous people try to
bully their way into the performance during the most beautiful of arias. The
ushers knew how to say ‘no’ to difficult people, so no amount of angry
threats or ID waving from Agent Okeke could get them inside. They would
have to sit and wait for intermission to talk to the minister.
‘We could pull the fire alarm,’ suggested Agent Okeke in a low voice so
the ushers wouldn’t overhear her. They had all been sitting on a large flat
couch for a total of three minutes and her patience had run out two minutes
and fifty-five seconds ago.
‘There are literally laws against yelling “fire” in a crowded theatre,’ said
Friday. ‘The panic can be as dangerous as the fire.’
‘Pfft,’ said Agent Okeke. ‘No-one wants to take any risk any more. If
someone is too stupid to be able to evacuate a theatre without being
trampled that’s their own lookout.’
‘It’s only twenty minutes to the interval,’ said Ian.
‘How do you know that?’ asked Friday.
 ‘It’s Carmen,’ said Ian, listening to the muffled sound of singing coming
from within the theatre. ‘This is the bit where José returns and Carmen tries
to seduce him with dance. Listen . . .’
Friday listened, but she couldn’t quite hear. ‘I can’t make it out,’ she
said.
Ian leaned in close and whispered the words in French, ‘Je vais danser
en votre honneur . . .’
Friday suddenly appreciated what everyone had always said about
French being the most beautiful language in the world. She closed her eyes
and hung on the sound of his voice and the feel of his breath tickling her
ear. She swayed towards him. Then, as the aria drew to a finish, Ian snapped
back to English and the spell was broken.
‘There’s still a bit to go. José hears a bugle call, Zuniga arrives,’
explained Ian. ‘They duel, then José has no choice but to run away with
Carmen. Curtain close. Everyone in the audience will rush out to get a drink
in about . . .’ Ian checked his watch. ‘Fifteen minutes from now.’
‘Urgh, so we have to wait,’ moaned Agent Okeke.
Ian was sitting next to Friday. He took her hand. ‘Look at us. We’re at
the Paris Opera on a Saturday night. It’s like a proper date.’
‘We’re hurrying to arrange political intervention in a fake forgery
investigation,’ said Friday. ‘That’s not very romantic.’
‘That isn’t, no,’ agreed Ian. ‘But this is – where we are – here in Paris.
We’re in a beautiful historical building listening to a great soprano sing a
beautiful aria about her tragic fate. Forget about the investigation for a
while. Just enjoy the moment.’
Friday looked at Ian’s hand in hers. She closed her eyes and listened.
The sound was muffled, but that only made the opera more haunting.
The final strain of the song reverberated across the lobby and the audience
burst into applause. The ushers threw open the doors and patrons started
rushing out. The ladies needing to go to the toilet were the fastest off the
mark, then the men heading for the bar were close behind.
‘Keep your eyes peeled, we don’t want to miss him,’ said Bernie.
The four of them stood up and scanned the flood of people streaming
out into the lobby.
‘Isn’t that your roommate?’ asked Ian.
Friday looked across in the direction he was pointing. It was Sophia.
She looked glum. It didn’t take Friday long to figure out why. Sophia was
with her father and he was on his phone ignoring her. That was, until he
spotted Bernie. Being large and brawny, Bernie was hard to miss.
Especially when he was dressed in a crumpled grey suit while all the other
men were wearing tuxedos.
‘What are you doing here?’ demanded the director. ‘Have you come to
dissect the throat of the soprano to confirm that she is real?’
‘No, it’s none of your concern,’ said Bernie.
Friday looked at the ground. This was an untruth. She knew she was bad
at lying and didn’t want the director to see into her soul and guess the truth.
‘You’re a disgrace,’ said the director. ‘I would say you’re a disgrace to
your people, but your people at Interpol all seem as disgraceful as you.’
‘Are you enjoying the show?’ Ian asked Sophia.
She blushed. Friday forgot that she had a crush on Ian. ‘I can’t actually
see anything,’ said Sophia. ‘The lady in front of me has a crazy piled-up
hairstyle. And the guy behind me keeps coughing on the back of my neck.’
‘That is Saul Dreyfuss,’ said the director. ‘He is a great patron of the
arts.’
‘It’s still gross,’ said Sophia.
‘There he is,’ said Bernie, spotting the minister on the other side of the
crowd. Bernie dived into the throng and started edging his way towards the
minister.
Friday was going to follow him, but Ian took hold of her hand again.
‘And you, sir,’ Ian asked the director. ‘Are you enjoying the show?’
Friday realised Ian was trying to make sure the director didn’t follow
Bernie and interrupt his conversation.
‘I don’t know who you are,’ said the director. ‘I didn’t come here to
converse with children.’
‘They’re my friends from the art school,’ said Sophia. ‘Where’s
Epstein?’ She looked about for him. Evidently, even though she could see
Ian holding Friday’s hand, it did not occur to her that they were a couple.
‘We broke up,’ said Ian.
‘You did?’ said Sophia, her face suddenly brightening up.
‘You did?’ asked Friday. She was also curious to find out where Ian was
going with this one.
‘Yes,’ said Ian. ‘I was heartbroken. But Epstein wanted to concentrate
on his art without the distraction.’
 ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ said Sophia unconvincingly. She was not a good
actor. ‘You should get out there and see other people, to take your mind off
things.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Ian. ‘Friday is helping me come to terms with my
disappointment.’
He held up their linked hands and kissed the back of Friday’s.
‘Oh,’ said Sophia. You could almost see her brain struggling to process
this information. ‘Oh, I get it. A rebound relationship.’ She nodded. This
made sense to her.
‘No, I’m pretty sure Friday is the one for me,’ said Ian. ‘I find myself
strangely attracted to short, cardigan-wearing girls with no social skills.’
Friday looked up in his eyes. He was laughing at her. Well . . . he was
laughing with her at her, so that wasn’t so bad.
‘Yes,’ said Friday. ‘And I find I have a hormonal imbalance that affects
my ability to regulate my breathing and retain my balance whenever Ian
enters the room.’
‘It’s a match made in heaven,’ said Ian.
‘Or a petri dish,’ said Friday.
‘Either way works,’ said Ian. He leaned towards her. Friday’s hormones
were doing that thing where she started to have trouble breathing again. Her
eyelids drifted down towards Ian’s lips as his face got closer. Suddenly they
were jostled. Friday looked round and realised that the minister had just
swept past them.
‘Come on, we’re going to talk outside!’ said Uncle Bernie.
The moment was gone.
Uncle Bernie guided Friday by the elbow as he followed the minister
out through the main doors onto the street.
‘What’s going on?’ demanded the minister.
‘The letter is a fake,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘It’s a hoax. There is no reason
to test the Mona Lisa.’
‘What?’ said the minister.
‘The letter uncovered in Italy,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘Someone went to
enormous trouble to create a convincing fake. It’s on the right paper and
with the right ink, but the words are wrong. They don’t fit with the time
period.’
‘So?’ said the minister.
 ‘So, there’s no need to test the Mona Lisa,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘We can
call it off.’
‘You’re out of your mind!’ exclaimed the minister. ‘We can’t stop it
now.’
‘But if the letter is a forgery,’ said Friday, ‘there is no reason to suppose
that the Mona Lisa is a forgery.’
‘Reality doesn’t matter any more,’ said the minister. ‘It’s about
perception now. The whole world thinks the Mona Lisa is a fake.
Explaining some detail about the etymology of a word in a letter isn’t going
change their minds. The only thing that will convince them now is scientific
proof. The tests have to go ahead.’
‘But there’s no need,’ said Uncle Bernie.
‘Of course there’s a need,’ said the minister. ‘The Mona Lisa is one of
the greatest tourist attractions in France. It is the jewel in the crown of the
Louvre. For the honour of the people of France, we can’t have its
authenticity in question. The scurrilous media speculation must be stopped.
Reality does not matter. It is about perception and politics now. The tests
will go ahead. I forbid you to tell anyone of this. You should leave – none of
you are dressed appropriately. You are drawing attention to yourselves.’
Bernie looked through the glass doors into the lobby of the Opera
House. The people inside were watching as they sipped their cocktails.
Everyone was so beautifully dressed and just generally really beautiful. Ian
could have blended in if he were wearing a suit, but the rest of them –
Bernie, Friday and Agent Okeke – did not. To the people on the inside, they
were no better than vagrants. Worse, because vagrants in the street didn’t
have the presumption to speak to them directly.
‘Okay,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘It’s your decision.’
‘You’re making a mistake,’ said Friday.
‘I’m a government minister for the nation of France,’ said the minister.
‘I don’t take advice from teenage girls.’
‘A teenage girl once led the French army to overthrow the British,’ said
Friday. ‘You should be more open-minded.’
The minister looked Friday up and down, from her green porkpie hat, to
her brown cardigan to her worn red canvas shoes. ‘My dear, you are no
Joan of Arc,’ said the minister. He turned on his heel and disappeared back
inside the building.
‘No-one does disdain quite like the French,’ said Ian.
 ‘Let’s get out of here,’ said Bernie.
‘What do we do now?’ asked Friday.
‘If our mission is complete,’ said Ian, ‘does that mean we can all go
home?’
Uncle Bernie shook his head. ‘The tests are taking place tomorrow,’ he
said. ‘We’ll get new orders when the results confirm what we already know.
We should continue in place until then.’
‘I don’t like it,’ said Friday, not really speaking to anyone. She was
staring at the ground and lost in her own thoughts as she ran through the
data in her mind. ‘This is a hoax. Someone put a lot of work into it. Why?
What were they hoping to achieve?’
‘Chaos,’ said Agent Okeke. ‘And their mission has been accomplished,
so now we can move on with our lives.’
‘Hmm,’ said Friday. She’d stopped listening. Her enormous brain was
working flat out, trying to solve the puzzle.
Ian looked at his watch. ‘We need to get back to the dorm. We’re doing
French archaeology in the Middle East tomorrow morning. We need to be
well rested for that. Otherwise, it will put us straight to sleep.’

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The following morning, Friday and the rest of her tutor group were led
down to the lowest level of the Louvre.
‘This afternoon, you’ll swap with the group from the fourth floor and
listen to a lecture on archaeology,’ said Kate. ‘But this morning we’re going
to study something amazing – a stone sphinx from Egypt. It’s so heavy that
the only place it can be displayed is on the basement level. The building
would not be able to support the weight.’
The main lobby of the Louvre was already one floor below ground, but
Kate led them down increasingly small corridors, twisting back and forth
down various staircases until they were even further below ground. There
were no skylights down here. Even the stonework of the wall was different.
The original building of the Louvre had been a medieval castle. It had been
extended, remodelled and rebuilt time and time again through the centuries,
but down in the basement levels you could still see the foundations of the
original building. They were round and made of much cruder stone that had
been the footing of one of the original turrets.
Kate pointed out a painting on the wall from the fourteenth century that
showed what the original Louvre building had looked like.
‘It looks like a castle from a fairy tale,’ said Melanie.
‘It looks like their designer had terrible taste,’ said Sophia. ‘Who would
have thought a blue roof was a good idea? It’s like flared trousers. A stupid
fashion even in its time.’
‘The gallery we are visiting is just around here,’ said Kate. They walked
around the arc of the medieval wall and turned into another small corridor,
then into a large dark room, at the far end of which was a spectacularly
dominating giant stone sphinx.
‘Cool!’ said Adam.
‘I do like cats,’ said Melanie. ‘Doesn’t it make you feel closer to people
from ancient times to know that, despite them having an entirely different
language, and customs and a really weird way of writing with sideways
drawings, they really liked kitty cats.’
‘They’d love the internet, with all the cat videos,’ said Roberto.
‘And Hello Kitty,’ added Melanie.
‘The exercise for today is to draw the sphinx,’ said Kate. ‘Then to draw
a cat, from real life. Then to combine both drawings.’
‘Where are we going to find a real cat?’ asked Adam.
‘There’s a cat cafe down the street,’ said Kate.
‘And we get to pat a real cat too!’ exclaimed Melanie. ‘What a
wonderful lesson plan.’
The group sat side-by-side on the big stone bench in front of the statue.
They took out their sketchpads and got to work. It was such an isolated
corner of the gallery, and so early in the morning, there were no tourists
about. The students could spread out and draw the sphinx from whatever
angle they wanted.
‘Just imagine the people creating this two and a half thousand years
ago,’ said Roberto. ‘In the desert of Egypt, slaving away, shaping this huge
stone cat. It would blow their minds to know it had been transported so far
and was stored in a basement in Paris all these years later.’
‘They’d probably be horrified to think that their temple was unguarded,’
said Friday. ‘I’m pretty sure the whole point of carving something out of a
fifteen-tonne block of stone is because you want it to stay in one spot. Not
move it about like a garden ornament.’
‘Humans are always silly like that,’ said Melanie. ‘They try to do things
that outlast history. Carve a huge stone, build a huge tower. It’s just a large-
scale version of carving your name on the back of a toilet door.’
It was very peaceful in the gallery. They were so far below ground level
that there was no street noise, no rumble from the metro. Everyone was
quietly going about their work. It was very relaxing. After the late-night
intrigue of the previous evening, Friday was actually enjoying drawing. Her
mind started to wander. What would she do next? This job in Paris had
fizzled out. There was no forgery. There was nothing for her to do here.
Perhaps Interpol would lose interest in her. But then what would she do –
go back to Highcrest? She’d only been gone a little over a month, but that
already felt like a lifetime ago.
She wished Ian was with her. He would tease her and stop her thinking
about such serious things. All she could hear was the scratch of pencils on
paper as her tutor group drew. Then suddenly a door clanged shut behind
them.
‘What was that?’ asked Sophia.
Kate went over to the corridor to look. ‘We’re shut in!’ she said. They
all followed her over to look for themselves. A large steel door had totally
closed off the narrow corridor.
‘The gallery must have gone into lockdown,’ said Sophia.
‘What?’ said Adam.
‘Paris has had many terrorist attacks,’ said Sophia. ‘Sometimes
evacuation is not the safest strategy. Buildings have contingency plans to
lock down. If someone gets into the gallery and seeks to damage the
artworks, security will lock the museum into dozens of separate units to
protect the other parts of the gallery.’
‘What about the people in the gallery?’ asked Adam.
‘It is safer for us too,’ said Sophia. ‘We just have to wait until the crisis
is over.’
‘We’ll starve,’ said Roberto.
‘Humans take three weeks to starve,’ said Friday. ‘On average, sieges
and hostage situations rarely last more than twenty-four hours.’
‘You think this is a siege?’ asked Kate.
‘It could just be a malfunctioning door,’ said Friday. ‘We should call the
office and see if the rest of the gallery is affected.’
Sophie looked at her phone. ‘There’s no reception down here.’
‘Oh,’ said Friday.
Suddenly a siren started wailing. The sound was muffled by the steel
door.
‘I don’t think it was a faulty door,’ said Roberto.
‘What if it’s a fire?’ said Adam.
‘We’re in a stone room with a stone statue, underground, next to a river,’
said Friday. ‘We’ll be fine.’
‘Notre Dame was made of stone, on an island, surrounded by a river on
all sides,’ said Adam. ‘And that burned down.’
 ‘Permission to panic?’ said Melanie.
Friday sighed. On balance, she was still pretty sure the siren was just
part of a drill or an alarm that had been accidentally tripped. But she wanted
to get out too. Ever since her release from the juvenile detention centre, she
had hated being trapped in confined spaces. And what was the point of
having a giant brain and a massive knowledge of how to commit crime if
you didn’t use it to help yourself once in a while? ‘Everyone stay calm. I’ll
get us out. May I use your phone?’ she asked Sophia.
‘But it doesn’t work down here,’ said Sophia.
‘Not as a phone, no,’ agreed Friday. ‘But I want to use the flashlight
function.’
Friday turned on the flashlight and used it to closely inspect every
aspect of the door.
‘Can you pick the lock?’ asked Adam.
‘There is no lock to pick,’ said Friday. ‘The door is controlled by an
internal electronic mechanism.’
‘Can you override that?’ asked Roberto.
‘If I had internet access and a couple of hours to hack through the
Louvre’s security firewall, maybe,’ said Friday. ‘But we don’t have internet
access down here.’
‘So we’re trapped,’ said Sophia.
‘I didn’t say that,’ said Friday. ‘When the door shut, we heard the sound
of metal sliding into a slot. That would have been the bolts of the lock
sliding into the doorframe to hold it shut. If we want to get out, we just have
to snap those two steel bolts.’
‘Snap two steel bolts from inside an empty room,’ said Adam. ‘We’ve
got no tools except some sketchpads and pencils.’
‘We’ve got one extra tool,’ said Friday. ‘The bench we were sitting on.’
They looked at the stone bench. It was made of marble.
‘That must weigh a tonne,’ said Roberto.
‘I doubt it,’ said Friday. ‘Maybe two hundred kilos. Between the six of
us, we should be able to lift that.’
‘How is a bench going to get us out the door?’ asked Sophia.
‘If we use it as a battering ram,’ said Friday.
Kate looked at the bench. There was a plague attached to the stone.
‘This bench was donated to the Louvre in 1763,’ read Kate. ‘It’s a piece of
art itself.’
 ‘It’s only been a bench for two hundred and fifty years,’ said Friday. ‘It
was metamorphic rock forged by the enormous heat and pressure of the
earth’s crust for tens of millions of years before that. I’m sure it can handle
being bashed into a door a few times.’
‘It would probably enjoy the change of pace,’ said Melanie. ‘It’s not
very dignified for the soul purpose of your existence to be providing a place
for people to rest their bottoms.’
‘Let’s do it,’ said Roberto.
They were all young people, even Kate, so when push came to shove
they didn’t need much encouragement to behave irresponsibly.
By carefully making sure they all lifted the bench at exactly the same
moment, they were able to get it off the ground. They slowly walked it over
to the steel doors, then put it down while they planned how they were going
to do this.
‘Okay,’ said Friday. ‘We want to impart as much force as possible into
that door. Force equals mass times acceleration. The bench already has a lot
of mass. That means to make as much force as possible, we need to move it
as quickly as possible.’
‘You say that like we’re going to have any control over what we’re
doing once we pick it up again,’ said Adam.
‘Basically, we just need to swing it back, then swing it forward to strike
the door,’ said Friday. ‘So that’s what we’ll do. One the count of three –
one, two, three!’
The six of them lifted the bench, swung it back and then forward – then
braced for a big crunch. But it never happened, because at the last second
the door hissed, beeped and slid open in front of them. They had all
expected an impact, so when that didn’t happen the momentum from the
heavy bench pulled them all forward and they went stumbling out into the
corridor.
‘Don’t drop it on your feet!’ yelled Friday.
Of course, nothing guarantees someone will drop something like yelling
at them not to drop it. Melanie lost her grip first. The bench was made of
marble and therefore slippery, so it was easy to do. The weight of the bench
sagged on the others and they all dropped it. Luckily, they all jumped out of
the way and the bench crashed to the floor.
‘Is everyone okay?’ asked Friday.
 No-one was screaming in pain, so she took that for a yes. Next thing she
knew, someone rushed Friday from behind and enveloped her in a huge
hug. It was Ian.
‘Thank goodness you’re all right,’ he said.
‘It was just the fire door closing,’ said Friday. ‘Probably a fault in the
security system.’
Ian stepped back and looked her in the eye. ‘No, it’s much more
serious,’ he said. ‘There have been gunshots. Upstairs.’

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‘What?’ said Friday.
‘We’ve got to get out of here,’ said Ian.
‘But what’s happening?’ asked Friday.
‘Shots have been fired up on the first floor,’ said Ian. ‘We need to leave
now.’
‘But the first floor – there’s where the Mona Lisa is displayed,’ said
Friday.
‘Not anymore,’ said Ian. ‘It was taken out of its case to be moved to the
forensic laboratory at eight forty-five.’
Friday glanced at her watch. ‘That was five minutes ago.’
Ian nodded.
‘Oh no,’ said Friday. ‘That’s it!’
‘What?’ said Ian.
‘The reason for the hoax,’ said Friday. ‘Starting the rumour about the
authenticity of the Mona Lisa – it was all staged to make that one thing
happen. To get the Mona Lisa taken out of her protective case so it would
be easier to steal.’
‘Oh no,’ said Ian. ‘And Bernie is responsible. He’s the one who has
been trying to make this happen.’
Friday nodded. ‘The thieves got him to do the hard part for them. We’ve
got to help.’
‘No, this is serious now,’ said Ian, grabbing her hand. ‘This isn’t for us
to deal with.’
‘I’ve got to help Uncle Bernie,’ said Friday.
‘You can’t help him. You can’t outsmart a gun,’ said Ian.
 ‘Of course you can,’ said Friday. ‘You get everyone else out of here. I’m
going to help Bernie.’
Friday took off running down the corridor.
‘You’d better go with her,’ Melanie told Ian. ‘It’ll take her about thirty
seconds to get lost.’
‘Will you be all right to get out?’ asked Ian.
‘If there are armed criminals running about upstairs,’ said Melanie,
‘maybe we should just stay down here out of the way. They’re not going to
come down here and try to steal the fifteen-tonne sphinx.’
‘Okay,’ said Ian. ‘Stay safe.’ He took off running after Friday.
When he caught up with her in the Islamic Art gallery she was already
lost, not knowing which way to turn.
‘Where are you trying to get to?’ asked Ian.
‘The Mona Lisa,’ said Friday. ‘We can’t let it be stolen.’
‘Then we need to get back to the main atrium so we can take the east
staircase,’ said Ian. ‘This way.’ He turned to the staircase on the right and
they hurried up it together. As they emerged into the next gallery, they
found panicking tourists rushing towards the exits. Friday was almost
knocked off her feet when a large German backpacker slammed into her.
‘Entschuldigung,’ he muttered while hurrying away.
Friday and Ian went with the flow of people until they spilled out into
the huge marble lobby. Security guards had thrown open emergency doors.
The crowds were hurrying up the stairs and escalators, which had been
switched off so they could be used as stairs, and out into the big open
courtyard above.
‘We’ve got to stop the thieves before they get here,’ said Friday. ‘With
all the security exits thrown open, it will be much easier for them to
escape.’
Suddenly there was yelling from the floor above.
‘Too late,’ said Ian.
‘Get out of the way! Move! Get out of the way. Let us through!’ men
were yelling angrily from the top of the main staircase.
Ian grabbed Friday’s hand and drew her over to the side of the room.
A gang of ten people bustled down the stairs. They were dressed in blue
boiler suits and black ski masks. They hustled through the lobby in a tightly
packed group, like a rugby scrum. They were protecting something in the
centre of their group and forcing their way through the crowd, by shoving
and yelling until everyone got out of their way.
‘They’ve got it,’ said Friday. ‘They’ve got the Mona Lisa.’
‘Stop right there!’ Agent Okeke bellowed out. She was standing at the
base of the escalators and she was blocking their escape route. She was a
small woman but she wore her rage like a force field. It was as if she could
repel attack with the sheer force of her personality.
‘MOVE!’ yelled one of the thieves.
‘Put down the painting!’ demanded Agent Okeke.
‘Get out of our way!’ ordered the lead thief.
‘No! Put down the painting,’ repeated Agent Okeke.
Just then there was a commotion coming from the floor above. ‘Put
down your weapons!’ barked Uncle Bernie. He was hustling down the east
staircase into the lobby, a team of security guards with him.
‘We’ve got to get out of here!’ The thieves were starting to panic.
‘She won’t shoot in here – too many hard surfaces – the bullet would
ricochet,’ said their leader. ‘Just knock her down.’
The largest of the thieves was just about to smash the butt of his weapon
into Agent Okeke’s head when there was more yelling, this time from the
top of the escalators. More security guards were coming.
‘We’re not getting out that way,’ said the leader. ‘Plan B.’
The thieves took off running again. This time across the lobby.
‘They’re heading for the metro,’ said Friday. ‘They’ll get away on a
train!’
Bernie ran after the thieves while bellowing orders into his phone.
‘Close down the metro now!’ he yelled. ‘Close off the entrance. Stop
the trains.’
Ian and Friday hurried after him. A tunnel connected the main atrium of
the Louvre to the underground metro station. They passed out of the
museum and into another open area that housed the entrance to the metro
station as well as a restaurant, a chocolate shop and a department store
called Printemps.
A cluster of befuddled security guards were blocking the entrance to the
metro. They had pulled across a steel grate. There was no way the thieves
could get past them, not with Uncle Bernie and the Louvre security team
close on their heels. The thieves had to improvise. They kept running
straight ahead and into the department store, where, in true Parisian style,
they started to throw together an improvised barricade.
The front of the department store featured perfumes and designer
handbags. The thieves brought all the shelving holding the displays
crashing down across the entrance to stop the security teams from following
them inside. When Uncle Bernie tried to rush the improvised barricade, the
thieves threw bottles of perfume at him until he staggered back. Perfume
doesn’t sound like a dangerous weapon, but Chanel Number 5 comes in a
square bottle, and he’d been hit in the eye by the corner of one. He’d also
had a whole bottle of Yves Saint Laurent’s Rive Gauche smash on his head.
So his hair smelled fabulous, but in an eye-wateringly strong way.

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‘Stop, stop,’ cried a metro police officer, rushing out to block Bernie and the
Louvre security guards. ‘You have no jurisdiction here. This is the metro
station. Louvre security have no authority.’
Bernie pulled out his badge. ‘I’m Interpol.’
‘You’re not even French,’ said the police officer. ‘You definitely have
no authority. This is a siege situation. The protocol is we must wait for the
counter-terrorism team to arrive.’
‘This isn’t terrorism. It’s art theft,’ argued Bernie.
‘Armed criminals in the metro is always treated as terrorism,’ said the
metro officer. ‘That’s protocol.’
‘How long will that take?’ asked Bernie.
‘Headquarters is just the other side of the river,’ said the police officer.
‘With traffic at this hour.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Perhaps ten minutes,
maybe fifteen, longer if an expert negotiator is not on site.’
Bernie looked in to the department store. He was stricken. ‘They have
the Mona Lisa. They could damage it in that time.’
‘It could be damaged already,’ said Friday.
‘Pursuing this investigation has made us accomplices,’ said Uncle
Bernie in despair. ‘We can’t just stand here and do nothing.’ He stepped
forward.
‘What are you doing?’ demanded the metro officer.
‘I’m opening negotiations,’ said Bernie.
‘You’re not qualified,’ said the metro officer.
 ‘I’ll improvise,’ said Bernie. He turned and yelled at the department
store. ‘You’ve been cornered. There’s no way out. You’re in an underground
room. There is only one exit and we’re blocking that escape route. Give up
now. We don’t want this situation to get worse.’
There was a pause as they waited to see how the thieves would respond.
Bernie turned. ‘They’re considering it.’ Suddenly, a barrage of perfume
bottles flew out of the store. One hit Bernie on the back of the head, another
in the middle of his back. The others smashed on the marble floor. ‘Hey!
That hurt,’ protested Bernie.
‘It’s really starting to stink,’ said Friday, holding her nose. Perfume is
nice in small quantities – a millilitre or so dabbed on your wrist. But to have
several litres of it, and in competing fragrances, pooled on the floor . . . The
smell was so intense. It was literally starting to affect their vision.
‘Stay back,’ one of the thieves called from inside the store. ‘We will cut
a chunk off the Mona Lisa if you come any closer.’
‘No!’ cried Bernie. ‘Don’t do that. Don’t make this situation worse for
yourself. Right now, you’ve just stolen the painting. If you damage it too,
that will make things much more serious.’
‘They’ve done way more than just steal a painting,’ said Friday.
‘There’s been armed robbery, intimidation, fraud, threats with deadly
weapons, property damage to the Louvre and thousands of euros’ worth of
perfume destroyed.’
‘Terrorism too,’ added Agent Okeke.
‘Shush,’ said Bernie. ‘We’re trying to reassure them, not frighten them
more.’
‘We should just shoot them,’ said Agent Okeke. ‘That would give them
second thoughts about doing this sort of thing again.’
‘You missed the day they taught negotiation and de-escalation at the
academy, didn’t you?’ said Uncle Bernie.
‘We want a helicopter to the airport,’ yelled the leader from the other
side of the barricade. ‘And a plane to meet us there, with a pilot and enough
fuel to go anywhere in Europe.’
‘I can’t authorise that,’ yelled Bernie.
‘Then get someone who can,’ the leader yelled back. ‘We’re not leaving
here until there is a helicopter in the Tuileries Garden waiting for us.’
‘They’ll never let you get on a helicopter without handing over the
Mona Lisa,’ said Uncle Bernie.
 ‘We’ll hand it over once we’re at the airport, safely on the jet,’ said the
thief.
‘I’ll make some phone calls,’ said Bernie. ‘This will take a while.’
‘You’ve got thirty minutes,’ called the leader. ‘Every ten minutes you
take beyond that, I’ll cut a piece off the painting.’
‘This is bad,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘This is really bad.’
‘I told you, you should wait for the proper negotiator,’ said the metro
officer. ‘This is all going in my report.’
‘They’re here!’ one of the security guards called out. ‘The counter-
terrorism squad. They’ve just pulled up outside.’
It took a couple more minutes for the heavily armed squad to make their
way downstairs into the metro station. The lead negotiator was wearing a
more formal version of the police uniform. The main difference was he was
carrying less weaponry. He also had a strangely crooked nose.
‘Ugh,’ said Agent Okeke.
‘You know him?’ asked Friday.
‘He’s my old boss,’ said Agent Okeke with a sneer.
‘The one whose nose you broke?’ asked Friday.
‘Nose and cheekbone,’ said Agent Okeke, with a note of satisfaction.
As the negotiator strode over to Bernie, he reached out with his hand.
‘The phone,’ he said. ‘Give it to me.’
‘The phone?’ said Bernie.
‘That you’re using to speak to the subject,’ said the negotiator.
‘Oh, we’re not,’ said Bernie. ‘I’ve just been yelling to them over their
barricade.’
The negotiator sighed and shook his head. ‘When we seek to de-
escalate, we do not yell.’ He snapped his fingers at a junior officer behind
him, who was carrying an open laptop and tapping on the keyboard. ‘Have
we triangulated their communication?’
‘Yes, there are ten active phones within the store,’ said the technician.
‘You see,’ said the negotiator. ‘This is how it is done. We are going to
calm everything down. We are going to slow everything down. We are
going to lower our volume.’ He spoke again to his assistant. ‘Call one of the
phones for me.’
The assistant took out a phone and dialled a number from his screen.
‘It’s ringing.’
 The negotiator snapped his fingers again and the assistant passed the
device to him.
‘I don’t know a lot about not being rude,’ Friday whispered to Ian. ‘But
even I know it’s rude to snap your fingers at someone.’
‘That’s why he’s doing it,’ murmured Ian. ‘He wants to be rude. He’s
asserting authority by forcing subservience.’
‘And how is that helping?’ asked Friday.
‘I think at the moment his main goal is humiliating Bernie,’ said Ian.
‘Shouldn’t he be focused on getting the Mona Lisa back?’ said Friday.
‘Police officers are public bureaucrats,’ said Ian.
‘With guns,’ said Friday.
‘Yes, but essentially bureaucrats,’ said Ian. ‘For them, getting the Mona
Lisa back would be nice. But their main concern is not getting in trouble if
they don’t get it back. That’s the reason that making Bernie look like a fool
is so important right now. In case things go badly later.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Friday. ‘Making Bernie look like a fool is so easy.’
‘He does give off buffoonish energy,’ agreed Ian. ‘He’s usually good at
making that work for him. Getting others to underestimate him. But in this
situation, it could go pear shaped.’
Suddenly the phone stopped ringing as someone on the other end picked
up.
‘Yes,’ said the voice on the phone.
Now the negotiator was all purring reassurance. ‘Hello, this is Vincent
Pierre of the Paris Préfecture de Police. I am a negotiator. It is my job to
talk to you and reach an arrangement whereby nobody gets hurt and the
Mona Lisa is returned undamaged.’
There was a pause.
‘You have twenty-three minutes to bring me my helicopter,’ said the
thief. ‘I have already negotiated with the bearded buffoon in the lobby. If
the helicopter is not in the Tuileries Garden in twenty-three minutes, I will
cut the nose off the Mona Lisa.’
‘Monsieur Barnes was not in a position to offer such a thing,’ said the
negotiator. ‘He is just part of the security team for the Louvre. It will take
more than twenty-three minutes to make this arrangement. We will need
more time.’
‘Do you know what the main chemical ingredient is in Chanel Number
5?’ asked the thief.
 ‘Umm,’ said the negotiator.
‘Ethanol,’ whispered Friday. ‘Most commercial perfumes are eighty to
ninety per cent ethanol.’
‘Ethanol?’ the negotiator said into the phone.
‘Very good,’ said the thief. ‘Ethanol. The same substance we use in fuel
for cars. It is a type of alcohol. Like cleaning alcohol, it can get stains out of
so many things, because it is a strong substance that dissolves oils. Paint is
made of oil. Now, can you imagine what effect it would have if I poured a
bottle of perfume, that is ninety per cent ethanol, over an oil painting.’
‘Don’t do that!’ said the negotiator.
‘Exactly,’ said the thief. ‘You don’t want me to do that, so you will hang
up this call now and get to work, arranging my helicopter.’
The line went dead.
‘This is all your fault!’ The negotiator turned on Bernie. ‘You made
promises you couldn’t keep.’
‘I did not!’ said Bernie. ‘They made demands I couldn’t keep.’
‘Which is why you had no business opening negotiations,’ said the
negotiator.
‘This isn’t an intellectual exercise,’ said Bernie. ‘This is a real time
situation where my officers and civilians have been threatened by highly
organised criminals carrying guns. I took action because the situation
required it.’
‘Can I just punch him?’ asked Agent Okeke.
‘What’s she doing here?’ demanded the negotiator in alarm as he
suddenly noticed his former employee.
‘Her job,’ said Uncle Bernie.
‘You’re more of a danger here than they are,’ the negotiator accused
Bernie. ‘You took action because you are a thoughtless buffoon!’
‘Stop!’ cried Friday.
‘What?’ said Bernie.
‘Why are there even children here?’ demanded the negotiator.
‘Because these children are two of Interpol’s top consultants,’ said
Bernie.
The negotiator rolled his eyes and made a scoffing noise. ‘This does not
surprise me. Interpol will be taking recruits from clown college next.’
‘For a negotiator, you really have terrible interpersonal skills,’ said Ian.
‘All of you stop bickering,’ said Friday. ‘Can you feel that?’
 Friday was standing in the middle of the lobby, the same as everyone
else. She wasn’t reaching out and touching anything, so no-one understood
what she meant.
‘Has the child gone insane?’ asked the negotiator.
‘That child is smarter than you, me and anyone else in this room,’ said
Bernie. ‘So how about you tais-toi and listen to her.’
‘Under our feet,’ said Friday. ‘Can you feel that?’
Everyone looked at their feet.
‘It’s vibrating,’ said Bernie.
‘Huh,’ said the negotiator. ‘It’s just the metro trains. They cause this
vibration.’
‘Didn’t you stop the metro?’ said Friday.
‘Yes,’ said Bernie. ‘It was the first thing I did. The metro officers know
the procedure. If there is an alarm at the Louvre, all trains are stopped until
we give the all clear.’
‘So what’s causing that vibration?’ said Friday.
‘Street work above,’ said the metro officer.
‘There is no street above us,’ said Friday. ‘We’re directly below the
Tuileries Garden.’
Bernie crouched down and put his hand on the floor. ‘But someone
must be using a power tool.’
‘Someone in there,’ said Friday, pointing in to the department store.
‘They’re cutting through the floor.’
‘They’re getting out!’ said Bernie.
Friday had already taken off running towards the barricade. Ian was
close on her heels.
‘Stop her!’ yelled the negotiator.
The counter-terrorism officers hesitated – they weren’t sure how. They
couldn’t shoot two teenagers. But they weren’t sure if they were supposed
to storm the barricade themselves. One officer pulled out his taser and fired
it at Friday, but a taser dart does not travel as fast as a bullet. Friday had
been at the top of the barricade, standing on a pile of display shelves, when
he pulled the trigger, but in the next instant she had tripped over the strap of
a $10,000 handbag and tumbled head first into the store. Ian lunged forward
to see if she was all right and the taser hit him in the back instead.
‘Nuunggggh,’ said Ian as he convulsed on the wreckage of the designer
display.
 ‘Ian!’ cried Uncle Bernie, rushing forward to help his stepson. ‘I’m
going to be in so much trouble with his mum.’
‘I’m all right,’ mumbled Ian. ‘Check on Friday.’
Bernie peered over the barricade.
‘This is a siege situation!’ yelled the negotiator. ‘I forbid you to interfere
further!’
Uncle Bernie ignored him. ‘Friday?’ he called out. He couldn’t see his
niece anywhere.
‘Back here,’ called Friday from the far side of the store.
‘Don’t go in there!’ said the negotiator. ‘I am in charge of this situation.’
‘I’m not taking orders from someone who thinks it’s okay to tase a
teenager in the back,’ said Uncle Bernie as he clambered over the barricade.
The negotiator nodded at one of his subordinates, who fired off another
taser. But Uncle Bernie was wearing a bulletproof vest, so the electrode
darts bounced right off. He was soon inside and running through the store.
Uncle Bernie found Friday right down the back, near the changing
room.
‘Look at this,’ said Friday.
There was a large hole cut in the marble floor, and ten mobile phones
sitting on the ground around it.
Bernie carefully picked up one of the phones. ‘What is this?’
‘What’s going on?’ Ian had caught up with them. He was still twitching
a bit from being tasered, but otherwise all right.
‘They’ve disappeared underground,’ said Friday.
‘But we’re already underground,’ said Ian. ‘How much lower can they
go?’
‘They can go down into the sewers,’ said Friday.
‘Gross,’ said Ian.
‘No, it’s genius,’ said Friday. ‘The Paris sewers mimic the streets above
ground exactly. They could go anywhere from here.’ She sat down on the
floor and swung her legs into the hole.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Ian.
‘Going after them,’ said Friday.
‘You can’t just go into the sewer,’ said Ian. ‘That’s disgusting.’
‘They’ve got the Mona Lisa down there,’ said Friday. ‘This is our last
chance to stop them. We’ve got to follow.’ With that, Friday dropped into
the dark hole.
 Ian and Bernie heard a thud.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Bernie.
‘Yeah,’ said Friday. ‘Although I’m going to need a new pair of shoes
after this.’
Ian got down and swung his legs into the hole next. He turned on the
flashlight on his phone, figured out where he could land without crushing
Friday and dropped. But when Uncle Bernie tried to follow it didn’t go so
well.
‘The hole is too small,’ muttered Bernie. His hips had snagged on the
hole. He couldn’t get any further. As Friday and Ian looked up – they could
just see his legs scissoring back and forth as he tried to wiggle through.
‘I can hear them at the end of the tunnel,’ said Friday. ‘Hurry up, we’ve
got to get going, or we’ll lose them.’
Uncle Bernie grunted and groaned as he tried to push himself down into
the hole, but it wasn’t going to happen.
‘I can’t get through,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘I’ll send down Okeke.’
But when Bernie tried to pull himself back up, he found that even
harder.
‘What’s happening?’ asked Friday.
‘I’m stuck,’ said Bernie.
‘This is just like Winnie the Pooh,’ said Ian.
‘We’ve got to go after them,’ said Friday.
‘We need to leave it to the police,’ said Ian. ‘These are armed robbers.
We can’t stop them.’
‘If we follow them, we can tell the police where they are,’ said Friday.
‘They can follow us above ground.’
‘Okay, I’ll tell the others,’ said Bernie. ‘But keep your distance. Let our
officers handle it.’

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Friday and Ian were lit by a single bulb directly above them. The sewer was
not what Friday had imagined. It wasn’t a round concrete tube like a
modern sewer pipe. It was an egg-shaped tunnel that had been crafted out of
bricks. The sewer was wide at the top and narrow at the bottom, where a
shallow stream of sewerage flowed. A walkway had been built into the
brickwork partway up each side. Friday could stand up straight here, but Ian
was six foot tall and he had to stop a little to avoid scraping his head on the
curved ceiling.
Beyond the arc of light, the sewer tunnel disappeared into darkness.
Although, in one direction, the tunnel was dark but at the far end, several
hundred metres away, there was a faint light. Friday peered at it, trying to
make out what it was . . . then suddenly, the distant light flicked off.
‘No!’ cried Friday. She took off running in that direction.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Ian, hurrying after her.
‘The lights have motion sensors,’ called Friday. ‘If we can see the light,
we know where they are.’
‘But we can’t see it anymore,’ said Ian.
‘We saw where it was, which means we saw where they were,’ Friday
panted as she ran. ‘That light had to have been triggered by the thieves.’
Friday ran as hard as she could into the blackness. She was not a great
runner, but she had to get to the next junction before they lost the thieves.
Her motion was switching lights on as she ran, but they were designed to
come on for someone moving at walking pace. Because Friday was moving
at speed, she was always just ahead of them. Every step she took she was
plunging forward into darkness.
 Suddenly Friday put her foot down and the ground wasn’t there. She
tried to reel back but Ian was close behind and he slammed into her. They
both toppled off the walkway and fell forward. Friday was horrified for a
millisecond, assuming she was about to land face-down in the sewerage.
But instead, she landed hard on a large pipe. Ian slammed down on top of
her.
‘Oomph,’ said Friday.
‘What happened?’ asked Ian.
The light had switched on above them. They were lying on a pipe that
was suspended across the top of the sewer – it was part of some kind of
sluice to control the flow. They had fallen off the end of walkway where it
had branched out in three directions.
‘Which way did they go?’ asked Friday.
Ian looked about. There was a faint glow at the end of one of the
tunnels.
‘Over there!’ he said. They scrambled to their feet and took off again.
They could hear the voices of the thieves now.
‘They must have stopped moving,’ panted Friday. ‘We’re getting closer.’
Her eyes were adjusting to the dark. This time, when the walkway stopped
in front of them, she saw it. ‘Watch out! There’s a bend.’
They skidded to a halt and turned into the new tunnel. This tunnel was
much bigger. Several different sewers fed into it. There was a boat floating
on the sewerage water and the thieves were climbing in.
‘How did they get a boat down here?’ asked Ian.
‘Run!’ cried Friday. ‘We have to stop them before they take off.’
They sprinted down the walkway, but it was no good. They were still
thirty metres way when the boat’s engine roared to life, and it took off.
Friday and Ian ran after it. The sewer was a confined space, so it couldn’t
go fast. They were able to keep pace until the boat got to the next bend.
When Friday and Ian turned, this new tunnel was different. It was massive.
Like a cathedral of sewerage.
‘What is this place?’ asked Ian. ‘How much poop can Paris have to need
a sewer this big?’
‘The sewers mimic the roads above,’ said Friday. ‘The only road in
Paris that’s this big is the Champs-Élysées.’
‘They’re heading west,’ said Ian, checking the compass on his phone.
‘Towards the Arc de Triomphe,’ said Friday.
 ‘We’ll never catch them on foot,’ said Ian.
Friday spotted something dangling on a pipe above the sewer.
‘We don’t need to,’ said Friday. ‘Do you have a credit card?’
‘What?’ asked Ian.
Friday pointed to the pipe above Ian’s head. There was an electric share
scooter hanging by its handlebar just above them.
‘Do you think it would still work?’ asked Ian.
‘There’s one way to find out,’ said Friday.
A minute later they were zipping along the walkway at the scooter’s
maximum speed. Friday was standing in front of Ian on the running board.
Ian was driving because he was the one with a sense of balance. It would
have been fun, if Ian hadn’t kept banging his head on pipes and wires
attached to the ceiling, and if they weren’t in a stinky sewer.
The boat came into view up ahead. It had pulled over to the walkway
and all the thieves were all clambering out.
‘They’ve opened up a manhole onto the street,’ said Ian.
Friday’s eyes weren’t as good, but even she could now see the thieves
climbing up a ladder.
‘We’re not going to get there in time,’ said Ian.
‘We’ve got to try,’ said Friday.
The scooter skidded to a halt at the base of the ladder just as the last
foot disappeared up through the manhole. Luckily the thieves were in such
a hurry to get away they didn’t think to replace the cover behind them. Ian
leapt up onto the ladder. Friday followed as quickly as someone with a total
lack of natural athleticism can leap off a scooter and climb a ladder while
not falling into a river of sewerage.
The ladder was gross. It was damp. Friday didn’t want to think what
was making it wet. It couldn’t have been good. Her feet slipped on the
rungs, but she hurried after Ian as best she could. She didn’t want to lose
sight of the thieves and she didn’t want to lose sight of Ian either. She
grabbed the final rung and pulled her head up through the hole – only to
have it nearly knocked off by a speeding car.
‘Friday!’ cried Ian.
Friday had momentarily ducked back down. Ian reached in and grabbed
her wrist. With his help, she climbed out onto the street as quickly as she
could. Another car blasted its horn as it veered around them, missing them
by just centimetres. Friday looked about. They were right next to the Arc de
Triomphe!
‘Wow!’ said Friday, looking up at the huge structure. ‘It’s massive up
close.’
Another car honked as it skidded to a halt, just missing them. The driver
leaned out the window and abused them in French.
Friday realised that they were standing in the middle of the traffic. The
Arc de Triomphe – apart from being a monument to France’s military
greatness – was also a traffic roundabout. Twelve different roads fed into
the junction. There was enough room for eight cars to drive side-by-side
around it, but there weren’t eight lanes, because there were no lane
markings! None at all. It was a huge angry swirl of traffic and Friday and
Ian were standing right in the middle of it.
‘Where did they go?’ asked Friday.
‘In every direction,’ said Ian.
The thieves, in their blue boiler suits, were running all over the place –
each one of them carrying a rectangular package under their arm. They had
broken apart like balls at the start of a pool game – all fired off in random
different directions.
‘What are they doing?’ muttered Friday. She watched as one jumped
into a taxi. Then saw another get on a bus.
‘That one just got in an Uber,’ said Ian, pointing in a different direction.
‘They’re escaping,’ said Friday. ‘In ten different ways.’
‘We don’t know which one of them has the real Mona Lisa,’ said Ian,
his head whipping round as he watched all the different thieves disperse.
‘It’s brilliant,’ said Friday, turning back and forth, trying to see where
they all went. One was heading for the metro, another had grabbed an e-
scooter, one jumped on the back of a courier’s motorcycle. ‘They’re trying
to trick us with nine separate wild-goose chases.’
‘They’re all getting away,’ said Ian.
They could hear the wail of police sirens getting closer but still some
distance away.
‘No,’ cried Friday. ‘Over there!’
Ian looked in the direction she was pointing. There was no thief in a
boiler suit. It was just a Giuseppe’s Pizza delivery rider, weaving his e-bike
through the traffic.
‘We’ve got to stop him!’ said Friday.
 ‘Now is not the time to think of food,’ said Ian.
But Friday had already taken off running. The pizza bike slowed down
to navigate around a woman pushing a pram, and that’s when Friday did the
most athletic thing she had ever done in her entire life. She leapt through
the air and crash-tackled the cyclist, knocking him and his bike to the
ground. The pizza hotbox broke off from the bike’s rack and tumbled away.
‘Get the box!’ Friday yelled to Ian. He ran over and grabbed it.
The pizza delivery guy struggled to get out of Friday’s grasp, but Friday
held tenaciously to his leg. Eventually the delivery guy got himself into a
position where he could pull back his other leg and he kicked Friday in the
face.
‘Nooo!’ cried Ian. He dumped the box and leapt on the pizza delivery
guy, flattening him to the ground.
‘Oomph,’ said Friday as their combined weight squashed her more.
Then there was another impact. The Interpol car had pulled up and Agent
Okeke, being much quicker than Bernie, had leapt into the fray.
Then things went a little bit crazy, because that’s when the counter-
terrorism squad arrived. They saw what looked like an armed black woman
attacking three citizens and launched into action. A half-dozen of France’s
most fearsome and burly police officers rushed in to join the scuffle. They
didn’t bother discriminating between who was a criminal and who was a
victim. They just put everyone in handcuffs.
When Friday was eventually turned over and allowed to sit up, she
blinked to clear her watering eyes. Bernie had picked up the hotbox.
‘Is it in here?’ asked Bernie.
Friday nodded, too tired to speak.
Bernie unzipped the hotbox, reached in and pulled out – a pizza box. He
looked up at Friday. ‘Friday, what have you done?’
‘Open the pizza box,’ said Friday.
Bernie raised the lid. He gasped. He turned to show the others. The
Mona Lisa was inside.
‘This is crazy,’ said Bernie.
‘No,’ said Friday. ‘This is art. This whole thing is just one big piece of
performance art staged by the biggest ego on the art scene.’
‘Who?’ asked Bernie.
Friday couldn’t point because her hands were still cuffed, so she tipped
her head in the direction of the delivery guy who was still being pressed
face down into the concrete footpath.
The officers rolled him over and they immediately recognised –
Giorgio.
‘You!’ said Agent Okeke. She had been handcuffed too, but she reached
out with her foot and tried to kick him.
‘This whole thing was just a stunt?’ said Bernie.
‘Not a stunt,’ said Friday. ‘A total humiliation of the art establishment.’
Giorgio smiled smugly. ‘This is my masterpiece. My Mona Lisa of
guerrilla art.’
‘Because only a great artist could forge a letter so perfectly,’ said Friday.
‘Exactly,’ said Giorgio.
‘It all fits,’ said Friday, nodding as the pieces of the puzzle fell into
place in her mind. ‘When you did your street graffiti, you used to wear hi-
vis clothes and pass yourself off as a council worker. You did the same thing
to get into Signora Peruggia’s apartment. You posed as a council worker
come to modernise her toilet cistern, then pretended to “find” the letter you
had forged.’
‘I’m smarter than I look, no?’ said Giorgio. He was enjoying this. His
favourite part of every prank was when people realised how clever he was.
‘And totally immoral,’ said Friday. ‘You stole a shirt from your own
son, and a bike from your brother, so you could disguise yourself as a pizza
deliverer.’
‘I protected Roberto,’ protested Giorgio. ‘I made sure he was safely shut
away with the Sphinx before we began.’
‘That was you?’ said Friday. ‘You locked us in?’
‘Of course, I had everything planned. They should be honoured to be
part of my great masterpiece,’ said Giorgio. ‘The art world will remember
this forever.’
‘You’ve just staged an armed robbery!’ exclaimed Uncle Bernie.
‘You’re going to jail forever!’
‘Pah,’ said Giorgio, dismissively. ‘I was not armed. The guns were
loaded with blanks. I would never hurt anyone.’
‘You idiot,’ said Bernie. ‘It doesn’t matter that you used blanks. You
made people think you were using live ammunition. That’s just as bad in the
eyes of the law. You terrified people. You endangered lives. You brought the
whole counter-terrorism squad into action on the busiest intersection in
Paris. What if they had started shooting? This could have been a disaster.
You will do serious jail time.’
‘Plus you drugged the guards at the Louvre so they fell asleep on duty
and lost their jobs,’ said Friday. ‘Did you make sure they were replaced
with your stooges? Were they the others in the boiler suits?’
‘So what? There’s no harm done,’ protested Giorgio. He was starting to
look worried.
‘Only through sheer miraculous good fortune,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘You
are under arrest.’

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Several hours later, Friday, Ian, Agent Okeke and Bernie finally emerged
from the police station. Melanie had arrived, bringing a town car to give
them all a lift back to the Institute.
‘That is the weirdest crime we have ever solved,’ said Friday.
‘We?’ said Ian. ‘You’re the one who figured it out. No-one else’s mind
was twisted enough to imagine such a strange crime.’
‘It was clever,’ said Friday. ‘As long as the Mona Lisa was in her case
she was perfectly safe. So the only way to steal it was to trick the gallery
into taking it out. And the only reason they would do that was if enough
people believed it was not the Mona Lisa.’
‘The sad part is,’ said Bernie, ‘after all this, even more people will
believe it’s a fake.’
‘Yes, but that’s part of the Mona Lisa’s mystique,’ said Friday. ‘It’s a
small dark painting of a merchant’s wife. It only became the most famous
painting in the world because Vincent Peruggia stole it a hundred years ago
and that captured everyone’s imagination. Today’s adventure is just another
chapter in her story.’
‘Is the painting all right?’ asked Ian.
‘Apparently,’ said Bernie. ‘It was taken straight back to the Louvre. A
team of their best art restorers have been checking it, but so far it appears
no harm done.’
‘That’s a miracle,’ said Ian.
‘There was enough harm done to my face,’ said Agent Okeke grumpily.
She was holding an icepack to her eye.
 ‘Yeah,’ agreed Ian. ‘We’d feel bad for you if we hadn’t seen the other
guys.’
‘How many of your counter-terrorism colleagues did you put in
hospital?’ asked Melanie.
‘Three,’ said Agent Okeke, with a small satisfied smile (not unlike the
Mona Lisa’s small smile). ‘They only had themselves to blame. They
shouldn’t have resisted when I resisted arrest.’
‘How did you know he was the pizza delivery guy?’ asked Ian. ‘He was
wearing a full-faced helmet. You couldn’t see it was Giorgio.’
‘The shirt,’ said Friday. ‘Roberto’s shirt had gone missing, just after his
dad visited the apartment. Giuseppe is Giorgio’s brother – it would have
been easy for him to swipe one of the delivery bikes too.’
‘Poor Roberto,’ said Melanie.
‘He’ll be fine,’ said Ian. ‘When you’ve got a dad like that . . .’ And Ian
did have a dad like that, so he knew. ‘. . . it’s easier when they’re in jail. At
least you know where to send a Christmas card.’
‘Come on,’ said Bernie. ‘All this talk of pizza is making me hungry. I’ll
take you all for dinner.’
‘Wait right there!’
A man in a grey suit and two uniformed police officers surged out of the
building. The man grabbed Friday by the shoulder.
‘Freitag Barnes?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ said Friday. Her birth had been registered in Switzerland and her
father was incompetent, so the German word for Friday, Freitag, was what
was written on her birth certificate and passport.
‘We need you to come with us for questioning,’ said the man.
‘What for?’ demanded Bernie.
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ said Friday. She was starting to panic. She
did not like the look in the officer’s eyes. They were holding back. There
was something going on that they wanted to keep from her.
The man in the suit nodded to one of the uniformed officers.
‘Then I’m arresting you,’ said the man.
Friday gasped. The next moment, the uniformed officer had stepped
behind her and snapped handcuffs onto her wrists.
‘What for?’ repeated Bernie.
‘Conspiracy to commit an act of treason,’ said the man. ‘And providing
military secrets to a hostile regime.’
‘You’re accusing her of terrorism?’ cried Ian incredulously.
‘Not again,’ moaned Friday.

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Friday Barnes was not an unhappy child. That said, she wasn’t deliriously
over the moon either. She was sort of just left to get on with things. You see,
Friday Barnes was the youngest of five children. Now I know what you’re
thinking: ‘Five children! Her mother must have been so busy. What a
workload! What a chaotic house they must have had!’ Well, that’s not how
it was at all.
Friday’s mother was a very systematic woman. You don’t get to have a
PhD in theoretical physics if you’re not good at being methodical. And that
is how Mrs Barnes approached child-rearing. She decided she wanted
children, so she allocated four-and-a-half years out of her career to have
them. She spaced them exactly eighteen months apart and when the oldest
started school and the younger two were in daycare, she went back to work.
Now I’m sure if you’re good at maths, you will have noticed that if you
have children eighteen months apart over a four-and-a-half-year period, that
gives you four children in total. Mr and Mrs Barnes had their four children
and everything went to plan. They taught them to read with flash cards, they
sent them to the best extra-curricular maths workshops and they even
allowed them to participate in sport. If you call yoga sport.
Then nine years later, just as their youngest child was gaining early
admission to high school, the unexpected happened: Mrs Barnes got
pregnant again. There was no time in her schedule for childbirth. On the
due date, she was committed to speak at a conference in Bern, Switzerland
about the possibility of the International Super Collider opening a black
hole and destroying the planet. For the first time in her adult life, Mrs
Barnes saw her iron-clad grasp on order and reason begin to slip.
Mr Barnes was, however, a man of action. If the action did not require
him to leave his office or get up from his desk. He googled Bern and
maternity hospitals. They discovered that there was one just three
kilometres from the conference centre. Mr and Mrs Barnes both breathed a
sigh of relief. From that moment on, life proceeded exactly as if Friday did
not exist.
Later in her third trimester Mrs Barnes travelled to Switzerland and
gave her lecture. Halfway through she started to feel labour pains, but she
was able to hold on throughout the powerpoint presentation. And only the
people in the front row noticed when her waters broke.
And so Friday was born. And she was named Friday because that was
what her parents thought was the day of the week. (Being academics they
often became confused about such trivial matters as times and dates.) It was
actually a Thursday. But the people at the births registry did not question
the name; they just assumed Mr and Mrs Barnes were Robinson Crusoe
fans, which of course they were not because neither of them believed in
reading fiction.
Eleven years later, Friday Barnes had largely raised herself. She was
fairly small and dull-looking, with light brown hair, muddy brown eyes and
the trick of finding the exact spot in a room with the least light, so that if
she stood perfectly still nobody would notice she was there.
Friday found it was best to go unnoticed as much as possible. Being
noticed just caused trouble. If her mother noticed Friday was eating an
entire block of milk chocolate, she would take it off her and tell her to eat
an apple. If she didn’t notice, Friday could eat as much as she liked.
If her father noticed that Friday was reading a shocking tell-all book
about serial killers, he would take it off her and give her a copy of the
periodic table to memorise (never having noticed that she already
memorised it by the age of four). Friday found that if she was able to go
unnoticed, which is very easy when you have academic parents whose
brains are totally consumed with thoughts of quasars and electrons all day
long, then she could do whatever she liked.
When her father walked past her bedroom at 1 o’clock in the morning
on a school night and noticed that her light was still on, he would, like a
normal parent, say, ‘Shouldn’t you be in bed?’
 But unlike a normal parent, when Friday said, ‘No, Father, it’s only 8
pm,’ he would just nod, take her word for it and go back to thinking about
quasars.
Now this may all sound very idyllic to many of you; to have
disinterested parents who never interfere with anything you do. But the
problem is that when you devote your entire life going unnoticed by your
parents, that talent seeps over into every other aspect of your life. Friday
went unnoticed at school, on the bus and at shops as well.
And if no-one notices you, then no-one talks to you, and if you spend
your entire childhood in silence, you will not develop very good social
skills. It is hard to make friends when your idea of a conversation starter is,
‘How many moles of acid do you use to make your hair turn that shade of
yellow?’
So at school, while all the other kids were playing, giggling and
gossiping, Friday would just read . . . a lot.
She had become so bored the summer she turned eight that she began
reading every single book her parents had in the house. They had quite a
few books (several thousand to be exact) and many of them were on
painfully dull subjects involving the minutiae of chemistry and physics. But
Friday read quickly so it only took her a year and a half to get through them
all.
As a result, Friday’s primary school teachers rarely had any information
to share with her that she did not already know, so they left her alone to sit
at her desk at the back of the room reading detective novels.
Friday enjoyed detective novels because being a detective seemed to
give a person a licence to behave very eccentrically indeed, and yet people
were always so glad to see you, especially when their maid or mother-in-
law had just been murdered and they were desperate to prove that despite
holding the bloodstained murder weapon in their hand as the police arrived,
that they were entirely innocent.
The only dark cloud on the horizon for Friday was high school.
Everything she knew about high school she’d learned from watching
television, which had led her to believe that high school was a terrifying
social ordeal full of bullying, dodge ball and having to find a date for the
prom.
It looked like she was going to have to go, though. She had tried not
applying (it never would have occurred to her parents to apply for her) but
the counsellor from the school had noticed and sent a social worker over to
the house to check on her.
Naturally, no-one in the Barnes family let the social worker in. You
should never let a social worker in your house unless you can absolutely
avoid it (i.e. they are accompanied by a police officer with a warrant). But
the social worker did insist on standing on the front doorstep calling
awkward questions in through the living room window, such as, ‘Is Friday
all right?’, ‘Is there a responsible adult in the house?’ and ‘Do you realise
that it is mandatory under the law for your daughter to attend school until
the age of seventeen?’
Friday tried to compromise. She didn’t want to go to high school. But
the government seemed insistent that she attend some kind of educational
institution, so Friday applied to university instead. Naturally she passed the
exhaustive seven-hour entrance exam to study medicine with flying colours.
But when the university found out she was only eleven they were not
impressed. Hospitals will not allow medical students to administer
medication if they are not even old enough to attend M-rated movies on
their own (no matter what television programs might make out to the
contrary).
So this was the situation Friday found herself in. It was November,
school was breaking up in four weeks and she would have to enrol in the
local high school and face six years of drudgery if she didn’t think of some
alternative quickly.
Friday had considered joining the French Foreign Legion but they
didn’t take women, or children, and she didn’t really want a job where she
might have to kill people. She considered running away to join the Peace
Corps but was afraid if she did they might force her to wear tie-dyed shirts.
And of course there was always the circus, but Friday had no intention of
running away there, because physical bravery was not her thing. The idea of
standing on a tightrope, or in front of a man throwing knives or, worse yet,
in the same room as a clown trying to be funny, scared the living daylights
out of her.
So Friday decided to do something tremendously out of character. She
decided to ask for advice.
Friday normally never asked anyone for advice. She didn’t ask anyone
her own age because she found that children gave terrible advice. And she
didn’t ask adults because she found that adults almost never knew as much
as they made out that they did. But there was one adult Friday was
particularly fond of: her Uncle Bernie.
Uncle Bernie was an ex-cop who worked as a private investigator for an
insurance company. He babysat Friday every Thursday night. This was her
favourite night of the week because as soon as her parents pulled out of the
driveway, Uncle Bernie would throw out the macrobiotic lasagne her
mother had left for their dinner, order two pizzas and let Friday watch TV.
Surprisingly, Friday’s parents actually did own a television. But they
had tuned it to receive only the most boring channels – the free ones from
the public broadcaster. The first thing Uncle Bernie did was tune in the
commercial channels so Friday could watch reality TV shows about
housewives needing plastic surgery so they could still be attractive to their
teenage gardeners.
Uncle Bernie would spread his paperwork across the dining room table
and pretend to concentrate on it while secretly watching the housewives on
TV too, speculating with Friday about whether botulism from their botox
injections was leaking into their sinuses and seeping into their brains.
Altogether, Thursdays with Uncle Bernie were always a tremendous
amount of fun. They were much more educational than Wednesday nights
in the Barnes household, which was ‘Conjugate That Verb’ night, when
Friday’s grown-up brothers and sisters would come over. Someone named a
verb and then everyone had to compete to see who could conjugate it in the
most languages. Friday usually spent Wednesday nights in the garden shed,
pretending she had to do a school project on dirt.
Anyway, on this particular Thursday night, Friday was waiting for an
opportunity to ask Bernie what to do about her compulsory high-school
attendance dilemma. She was hoping, being an ex-cop, that Bernie might
know someone in people trafficking who was prepared to sneak her out of
the country and away to a distant land where they didn’t believe in free
compulsory education.
But Uncle Bernie was clearly distracted. He kept sighing loudly and he
wasn’t making any of his usual fun comments that started with, ‘That
woman’s face looks like a . . .’ and ended with some outrageous comparison
usually involving an alien suffering third-degree burns.
In the end Friday muted the television. (She wasn’t going to turn it off
entirely. She loved her uncle but she didn’t love him that much.) Turning to
Uncle Bernie at the dining table, she asked, ‘Are you all right? You’ve been
sighing very loudly, which leads me to deduce either you have a lower
respiratory tract infection that is inhibiting your body’s ability to absorb
oxygen, or something is troubling you. And given that you don’t have a
girlfriend, have no large outstanding debts and are sitting with all your
office paperwork spread out in front of you, I surmise that you are troubled
in some way by your work situation.’
‘I am, I’m afraid,’ replied Uncle Bernie. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been able
to give the housewives my full attention.’
‘No matter,’ said Friday. ‘I’ve recorded it for you. I knew that once
you’ve resolved this, no doubt temporary, work dilemma you would want to
watch it again because Brianna’s confrontation with the pool boy when she
finds out he has secretly been canoodling with the gardener is priceless and
just the thing to take your mind off any career difficulties.’
‘I’m under a lot of pressure from the higher-ups to solve this one,’ said
Uncle Bernie.
‘The higher-ups?’ questioned Friday.
‘The CEO of the whole company rang me to talk about this case,’ said
Uncle Bernie.
‘He took time away from the golf course to speak to you?’ asked Friday,
astounded. She knew the CEO of the insurance company where Uncle
Bernie worked was so important that he played golf all day and only came
into the office when people least expected it so he could scare the living
daylights out of everyone.
‘No, he rang me from the ninth hole,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘He was
waiting for security to come and remove some lady golfers so he could play
through, and he gave me a call.’
‘Was it about your diabolical dress sense?’ asked Friday with concern.
‘Have members of the public been making complaints?’
‘What?’ said Uncle Bernie.
‘For a start, there is the fedora you insist on wearing,’ said Friday.
‘It’s traditional for great detectives to wear silly hats,’ said Uncle Bernie
defensively.
‘Then there’s your suit,’ added Friday.
‘There’s nothing wrong with my suit,’ protested Uncle Bernie.
‘Insurance investigators are meant to wear grey suits.’
‘Do professional norms also stipulate that you must never get it dry-
cleaned or hang it up properly on a coat hanger?’ asked Friday.
 Uncle Bernie was not offended. He knew she didn’t mean any harm.
‘It is an important tool for an investigator to trick a suspect into
underestimating you,’ explained Uncle Bernie as he tried to hide the coffee
stains on his shirt with his tie.
‘Are you very good at that trick?’ asked Friday.
‘I like to think of it as my greatest talent,’ said Uncle Bernie.
‘So why did he call you?’ asked Friday.
‘Who?’ asked Uncle Bernie, trying to remember the last time he had his
suit dry-cleaned. It definitely hadn’t been in this calendar year.
‘The CEO,’ reminded Friday. ‘Why did he take time out of his golf
game to call you?’
‘Oh, because of the case,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘I’m working on a bank
robbery. A diamond worth five million dollars was stolen from a safe
deposit box at the central branch of First National Bank.’
‘One diamond worth five million dollars?!’ exclaimed Friday. ‘That’s
ridiculous! Don’t they know diamonds are just compressed carbon, and
carbon is everywhere? In pencils, in wood, in every cell of our bodies?’
‘Yes, but the cells in our bodies aren’t shiny and beautiful when set into
necklaces,’ said Uncle Bernie.
‘I know some molecular biologists who would disagree,’ said Friday.
‘But I understand the point you are making, and merely shake my head at
the ridiculous flights of fancy in our modern world.’
‘Anyway,’ said Uncle Bernie, ‘I’ve got to catch who did it and get the
diamond back, or our insurance company is out of pocket six million
dollars.’
‘I thought you said it was worth five million dollars,’ said Friday.
‘It is, but the policy has an additional one million for hurt and
suffering,’ explained Uncle Bernie.
‘Will you get a promotion if you find out who did it?’ asked Friday.
‘If by promotion you mean will I get to keep my job, then yes,’ said
Uncle Bernie. ‘The company really wants that diamond back. They’re even
offering a $50,000 reward to anyone who provides information that leads to
its return.’
‘$50,000!’ Friday exclaimed. Then, in the only athletic action she had
taken in the last five years (since she had run away from the doctor trying to
give her a tetanus injection), she leapt over the couch. ‘Why didn’t you say
so?!’ Friday exclaimed. ‘Let me see that paperwork.’
OceanofPDF.com
R.A. Spratt is the author of Friday Barnes, Shockingly Good Stories,
Astonishingly Good Stories, The Peski Kids and The Adventures of Nanny
Piggins. When she isn’t writing stories she is telling them on her podcast
‘Bedtime Stories with R.A. Spratt’. R.A. lives in Bowral, NSW, where she
has three chickens, five goldfish, many tadpoles and a desperately needy
dog called Henry. She also has a husband and two daughters.

For more information, visit raspratt.com

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 Books by R. A. Spratt

The Adventures of Nanny Piggins

Nanny Piggins and the Wicked Plan
Nanny Piggins and the Runaway Lion
Nanny Piggins and the Accidental Blast-Off
Nanny Piggins and the Rival Ringmaster
Nanny Piggins and the Pursuit of Justice
Nanny Piggins and the Daring Rescue
Nanny Piggins and the Race to Power
The Nanny Piggins Guide to Conquering Christmas

Friday Barnes: Girl Detective

Friday Barnes: Under Suspicion
Friday Barnes: Big Trouble
Friday Barnes: No Rules
Friday Barnes: The Plot Thickens
Friday Barnes: Danger Ahead
Friday Barnes: Bitter Enemies
Friday Barnes: Never Fear
Friday Barnes: No Escape
Friday Barnes: Undercover
Friday Barnes: Last Chance

The Peski Kids: The Mystery of the Squashed Cockroach

The Peski Kids: Bear in the Woods
The Peski Kids: Stuck in the Mud
The Peski Kids: Near Extinction
The Peski Kids: The Final Mission

Shockingly Good Stories

Astonishingly Good Stories

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 PUFFIN BOOKS

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First published by Puffin Books, an imprint of Penguin Random House

Australia Pty Ltd, in 2023

Copyright © R.A. Spratt 2023

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