Dordogne, France
April 19, present day
Reynard read over the information that had been couriered to him in hard copy, his computer screen dark. He avoided electronic communication in all but the most urgent of matters. He set down the file, his suspicions confirmed, withdrew a sheaf of engraved stationery, and uncapped his Montblanc pen. Then he hesitated. The intended recipient was like a daughter to Reynard, and he was loath to make the request.
He had rescued Clara; it was his role to provide guidance and wisdom. Nevertheless, Reynard had made a promise to his client, Elizabeth Brewer, and one way or another he needed to fulfill it. Without his reputation, he was nothing. He glanced briefly at the framed black and white photo of an eight-year-old girl on the mantel. In the photo, the little girl sat in a large wingback chair dressed in a velveteen party dress with bows in her hair and her cherry lips smiling. Everything about the photo was perfect, but, if examined very closely, the small garden snake clutched in her hand and hidden by her leg was just visible. The snake ended up in the photographer’s camera bag and had sent the woman screaming from the house. Clara was indeed a wonderful, devilish handful.
He had been in Paris on business, and, as was the nature of his work, he was often in undesirable places at inconvenient hours. Having concluded his meeting, he was headed back to the car when a disruption in a nearby alley caught his attention. A man was swearing and tossing aside boxes and trash as though he was looking for a rodent lurking in the garbage. Then he grabbed a child of about six or seven and in guttural French explained his intentions in detail. The child didn’t cry or scream; she thrashed—kicking and scratching despite the short knife in the attacker’s hand.
Reynard did not involve himself in such matters. Success in his business hinged on the clandestine, and anything that jeopardized that was avoided. But this situation was so compelling even Reynard’s bodyguard, who would never raise a hand without orders, had taken an involuntary step forward. Reynard had stayed him with a slight gesture and commanded the attacker, “Relâchez l’enfant.” Release the child.
The man spun, the child suspended by the collar he gripped, and gave Reynard a toothless smile. “Quel est elle vaut?” What’s she worth? It always came down to money.
Reynard opened his suit jacket. His wallet nestled in the breast pocket, his Walther P99 semi-automatic holstered at his side. He pulled out the gun and, in a move bred of years of practice, put a bullet between the man’s eyes, muttering to no one in particular, “Ta vie.” Your life.
Then something truly remarkable had happened. He assumed the child would scurry away, back to the labyrinth of backstreets and passageways. Instead, the moment her feet hit the ground she ran to him and wrapped herself around his leg. He cast a puzzled glance to his bodyguard, then tapped her on one filthy shoulder. She looked up at him and through the grime on her face and the snarl of matted hair that might be yellow, he saw eyes as wide as teacups and the color of the Adriatic blinking at him without guile. Reynard gestured to the open back door of the Mercedes, and she had climbed in without fear or hesitation. In the back of the car, he had said only one thing.
“Je suis un criminel.” I am a criminal.
And she had given only one reply. “Les crimes sont sur les mains. La bonté est dans le cœur.” Crimes are on the hands. Good is in the heart.
And that was that.
Clara became his ward—Reynard found a fond romanticism in the dated notion. She was a bright, eager child who excelled in her schoolwork, athletics, and arts. She had no surname, so she had chosen Gautreau after the subject of John Singer Sargent’s illustrious portrait, Madame X. They would dine each night, and she would prattle on about the most inconsequential activities of her day that seemed to Clara like small miracles—a beehive she found in a tree or a cloud in the shape of a peacock.
Reynard had hung on her every word, his joy at being given the responsibility of this remarkable child immeasurable.
As talented as she was, she had one skill in particular—despite Reynard’s scolding and discouragement—that stood out among the rest. Clara was an incomparable thief. She would pick the pockets of the guards and leave the items for them at the gatehouse. She had cracked the safe in Reynard’s own bedroom while he slept. The following night he had come to dinner and found a particularly meaningful signet ring in the center of his gleaming dinner plate. Clara had joined him at the table and eaten, telling stories of her day while Reynard did everything in his power to mask his pleasure at her antics.
Now, at twenty-four, Clara was his pride and joy. She was prepossessing and astute, and she was still an exceptional thief. And while he discouraged her hobby, nothing escaped his notice. He knew she occasionally relieved a shady businessman of an ill-gotten item; she wasn’t Robin Hood, but nor was she Atilla. In his traditional psyche, he hoped Clara would find a man worthy of her and settle down, but Clara had her own mind, a quality he had recognized from the first moment in that fetid alley. It was also the quality that had him finally putting pen to paper to make his request. If anyone could do what he needed, it was Clara.