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Cesar takes a slow, unnecessarily extended sip from his café viennois as he gazes across the Seine, index finger tapping a syncopated rhythm against the glass. It’s beginning to turn slightly too late in the evening for coffee, but that is entirely not his problem. No one bats a particular eye at coffee-goers past 6 pm, and he cannot deny himself a viennois before business. Chantilly cream sticks to his nose as he pulls away.
International crime is not his specialty, but he halfway wishes it was. Four ritzy hours into Paris and his heart is pounding like a giddy kid in a candy store, presented with an assortment of new sweets. And by sweets, he means shiny things. He drains the rest of the mug, eyes fixed on the watch of a gentleman sitting two tables in front of him. 6:44.
Somewhere across the city, Mark is probably perched on the lip of a bistro, nursing a late-evening tea and profiteroles for his sweet tooth. Or a glass of Armagnac, if he wants to look more urbane, although Cesar doubts it. Despite Mark’s strange penchant for Gascony brandy, the sting tonight would not leave much room for alcohol.
Swirling around the last milky dredges of his woefully short-lived coffee, Cesar rests his chin delicately on his wrist and gazes out on the glowing Parisian skyline, reflected into the Seine. They’d be back in Wisconsin in less than 24 hours, no doubt; Mark likes being punctual with his escapes. Practical, and yet a little disappointing. At least he’ll be taking pieces of Paris back with him to the states.
He straightens his tie, pretends to fuss with his coat lapels, readjusts the position of the knife tucked into his shoe, and checks the watch of the man in front of him again. 6:46.
It’s a pretty thing, truncated gold and glittering against the night; the owner would call it a timepiece. Mark would know what brand it is, but Cesar doesn’t particularly care. He slides by the man and bumps into him on the way out, leaving the eight of diamonds in his pocket.
It reads 6:49; right on schedule. Cesar tilts the face of the watch, watching the light reflect on the internal mechanisms. Mark is going to love this one.
T-minus 10 minutes.
__
Mark is early, as always, roosting acrobatically on the metal arm of a public bench. His cream-brown trenchcoat is pulled out just enough to prevent him from looking suspicious, but ominous enough to sufficiently deter unruly tourists and locals alike. Not nearly enough to deter Cesar, who vaults over the back of the bench to settle next to him.
“I got you a present,” Cesar sing-songs. He feigns adjusting his cufflinks, producing the watch out of his sleeve pinched between his thumb and forefinger. “Ta-da!”
Mark draws down the cowl of his coat an inch further to squint judgmentally at Cesar, presumably for being an unforgivable 23 seconds late. His irritation is very quickly forgotten as he glances down at the timepiece, holding it up so the light of a streetlamp catches on the face. 6:52.
“This is a Blancpain,” he says, with a rare note of awe in his voice. His thumb finds a tiny blemish on the metal buckle and Cesar can already see him doing the mental calculations on how to mend it. “Villeret Ultraplate.” Mark gives him a doubtful look with his eyes narrowed. “Cesar…”
“Hey.” Cesar raises both hands innocently. “He was rude to the waiter. And filthy rich. I’m sure he doesn’t mind.”
Mark glances down at the watch again, letting the light play on the hands, before silently slipping it into his pocket as a sign of his acceptance. He’s clearly in a good mood, a melodious pre-heist buzz in the air.
“Just a little housewarming gift, anyways,” Cesar says, draping one arm across the back of the bench with a lazy smile. “10-grand timepiece fresh off the wrist of a wealthy man.”
“11 grand,” Mark corrects, and then wrinkles his nose. “Are you wearing business formal?”
“What?” Cesar gestures grandly to his suit, grinning. “This is barely business casual. I don’t even have my waistcoat on. Or my good tie.”
“All your ties look the damn same,” Mark huffs, and ignores Cesar’s resulting cry of indignance. He spares a glance at the watch, eyebrows pinching upward pleasantly. “Hey. Suits.”
“Mmm?” Cesar follows his gaze, eyes pinned to the minute hand.
“Let’s bolt.”
Cesar hums, reaching to roll up the sleeves of his suit. “Good plan.”
__
From the left bank of the Seine, the clock on the front of the Musée d'Orsay reads 6:59.
T-minus 60 seconds.
__
The clock chimes 7:00. A stationed security guard hits an operatic high C when Mark descends from the skylight in a blur of fabric and limbs; Cesar is deeply impressed by his vocal range. Mark, less impressed, takes all of 3 seconds to tranquilize him before moving on.
“I wish they weren’t so noisy,” he grumbles, dragging the unconscious guard to let him rest against the wall. Cesar drops through the roof after him, hands barely skimming the guide rope as he falls. A textbook-perfect entrance.
Indeed, it always seemed like entries are Mark’s talent; he’s exceptional at getting himself into things, like vaults, and museums, and trouble.
“I’ll take the K wing,” Cesar offers, although they already had each detail of the sweep ironed out to a crisp. Mark nods shortly and fumbles to turn on the microphone pinned to his coat lapels.
“I’m going M wing,” he intones into the microphone, despite the fact that Cesar is scarcely 5 feet away from him and knows exactly where he is going. “If you aren’t in the N section by 7:15 I will assume that you tripped a wire and died.”
“You wound me.” Cesar brings his hand to his chest melodramatically. “As if I couldn’t outclass a tripwire.”
“We need to move,” Mark demands, although Cesar can tell in the low light that he’s rolling his eyes. “Catch you back.”
“Right back ‘atcha, sharps.”
__
The ace of spades is lovingly stapled to the drywall where an iteration of The Card Players by Paul Cézanne once hung. Cesar hums to himself as he smooths out the corner so that it rests flat against the wall. Really, the museum should be grateful. This particular deck of Bicycles has his favorite linen finish; impeccably easy to manipulate, and he’s loath to part with them.
Behind him, he hears a yelp, and the flood of a flashlight illuminates his work in white light. He almost sighs before turning around. It took them long enough.
“F-freeze!” The guard shouts, staring bug-eyed at the painting Cesar has tucked under his arm. He’s knock-kneed, clearly brand new; Cesar almost feels bad for him, except he had been waiting for too long.
Ah, so the fun begins here.
__
“Hey, sharps,” Cesar sings into his microphone, from half a dozen feet up in the air. There’s a dazzling assortment of perches that the Musée d'Orsay affords him; he’s currently balanced on the far corner of a column, watching security swarm the ground floor like a hive of disturbed wasps. “Got a cat on your tail yet?”
“No, I think you’ve dragged every guard to your wing,” Mark’s dry response rings through his earpiece. “Somehow. Think I should let them keep their Monet?”
“Let ‘em have the Nymphéas Bleus,” Cesar says, eyes tracking the erratic movement of each uniformed guard, flashlights like strobes flaring across the ceiling. “We can come back for your favorites later.”
“I like your style, suits.”
__
12 minutes and 4 accurately-aimed tranquilizer darts later, Cesar finds himself the earliest in the N section, carefully preening mussed strands of hair back into place. Nothing like a good escape to improve his mood. Mark arrives half a minute later, unbothered and with a dark, butcher-papered frame tucked under his arm.
“Ah, so you’ve arrived,” Cesar feigns relief. “I was beginning to fear that you tripped a wire and died.”
“You exhaust me,” Mark grumbles, although he looks anything but exhausted. “I assume you’ve pissed off as many guards as you can?”
“You assume correctly.”
“Then let’s bolt.” He pulls the Blancpain out of his pocket, just for dramatic effect, and glances down at the ticking hands. “7:13, we’re a little early.”
“Think we can get coffee before we run?”
Mark gives a sidelong glance toward the rooftop cafe as if actually considering it before he turns his eyes toward the skylight once more. “I will get you your café viennois once we have these squared away,” he vows, and then runs off the balcony to take a flying leap.
__
Mark has no business calling Cesar exhausting. His own personal brand of drama is far more tiring.
With Gascony brandy coming in second place, Mark has a particularly strong taste for flinging himself through the air.
Alas, as they sail several dozen feet above the ground, hanging on by the momentum of Mark’s macgyvered grappling hook, Cesar is forced to concede that there is a little fun in the overly dramatic escapes. Even if he clings to Mark so violently that he thinks the blood will never return to his fingertips.
Mark has them descended from the rooftop before they can even begin to hear the police dispatch blaring over the nighttime horizon. Cesar predicts they wouldn’t be able to enter the museum for another 8 minutes or so; competing with the 7 pm influx of tourists sprawling the streets is not an easy task.
Within the trunk of Mark’s most beloved, most illegal escape car, Cesar peels back the false plastic bottom and tucks the paintings that are now illegitimately his inside. He suspects there is little in the world that can replicate the heady rush of the smell of old oil paint and varnish.
“That’s called fumes, Cesar,” Mark says drily when he speculates out loud. “Get in the car.”
7:18. 5 minutes until expected dispatch arrival. Cesar doesn't find it very necessary to rush toward the doors; it’s remarkably undignified, and also every security measure that could be following them is impossibly and boringly slow. He kicks his feet up and rests his chin against the heel of his hand, arm draped against the open window.
“Minimum traffic law violations,” he warns, preemptively and uselessly.
Mark grins. “I’ll try,” he says, like a liar.
__
A good heist always ends quietly.
To Mark’s disappointment, the police have not made chase by the time they cross over to the right bank of the Seine, and Cesar has forbidden him from inciting it on purpose. That leaves them half an hour of low-profiling before the police dispatch eventually moves downtown.
“I can’t believe they didn’t see me,” Mark says, for the dozenth time, frustratedly. He had swapped his intimidating trenchcoat for a cream sweater vest and put on the worst pair of sunglasses in the world, which makes him blend in perfectly with the Parisian streets. Why he’s wearing sunglasses at 7:25 pm is a mystery to everyone. “I was right there.”
“Woe is you,” Cesar says, his voice lilting with false sympathy. “The police didn’t chase you. How heartbreaking.” Unfortunately for him, he had to abandon his business casual for a tragically unassuming white dress shirt and slacks. Even worse, he had to put his hair up.
“Quiet, you.” Mark pauses their stroll to look across the street, eyes set upon the glowing lights of a bistro with a touch of longing in his gaze. “Ah, I still owe you that viennois, don’t I?”
“I was beginning to think you’d forgotten,” Cesar says, delighted, which is a blatant lie because he would never let Mark forget a promise like that. “We have half an hour to burn.”
Mark sighs, lifting his sunglasses to his forehead. Despite being his most ridiculous pair, they are also Cesar’s favorite; the atrociously hot pink lenses make Mark’s eyes turn red. “I don’t want to leave my car unattended for more than 20 minutes,” he says, although he’s already veering to cross the street. “There’s an equivalent of 23 million in that trunk, you know.”
“Ah, but a good coffee is priceless,” Cesar says sagely. “Coffee break, sharps. I think a run like tonight’s earns it.”