The First Felon

What is it like to be the best in the world at something?

Image from Pixabay

The man in the black suit whispered in the French President’s ear.

“Incroyable! Find him!” President Braud said, slamming his fist on the armrest. The two-hundred-year-old chair held up to his blow, but barely.

“Is there a problem?” Daniel Ivers, President of the United States, asked.

The two presidents sat three feet apart in the ornate salon d'Hemicycle, their chairs angled toward each other at forty-five degrees. Behind them, the wall-sized Judgment of Paris tapestry loomed, and above hung a twenty-two light chandelier. 

Ivers eyed the gold candelabra atop the fireplace before returning his gaze to Braud. 

“Oui and non. It seems that a miniature portrait of Napoleon painted by Jacques-Louis David has been stolen from the Élysée,” Braud replied. “It was on an easel in the Salon des portraits. It’s a work of immense value and importance to the French people.” Braud balled his hands into fists so tight that his flesh turned red.  

“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. President.”

“We will find the thief. I apologize for the interruption. We have more important matters to discuss.”

Agent Mark Cullen, the head of the president’s Secret Service detail, knocked twice on the door of Air Force One’s presidential office. 

“Enter.”

Cullen stood in the exact center of the carpeted room on the Seal of the President of the United States, an eagle holding an olive branch in one talon and thirteen arrows in the other. Despite the plane’s upward tilt as it gained altitude, Cullen didn’t hold onto anything for balance. 

The President swiveled his thick-cushioned leather chair toward Cullen. He removed his reading glasses and closed the folder marked Top Secret. 

Although the room was the most insulated space on Air Force One, the hum of the four powerful General Electric engines was impossible to completely block out. 

“What do you need, Cullen?” 

Cullen cleared his throat. “I'm not sure how to tell you this, Mr. President, but the first lady has the missing portrait of Napoleon in her possession.” His voice dropped to a few decibels above a whisper. “I think it happened when the first lady was—”

The President thrust his hand forward like a cop commanding a car to halt. “I don't need the details. I just need to know if you’re certain.”

“I am, sir. The first lady stole the painting.”

“Does President Braud know?”

“No, sir. The French are still investigating. But my guess is they won’t be able to tie the first lady to the theft.”

“I see. You’re sure about this?” 

Cullen nodded.

“How did you discover that Alice took the painting?” 

“When the first lady’s aide was unpacking her travel clothes, she noticed the painting. The art was wrapped in the blue dress the first lady wore to the state dinner at the Élysée yesterday night.”

The red Fasten Seat Belts light blinked off, but Ivers had unbuckled his belt as soon as the jet cleared the runway. 

Ivers thought for a few seconds. “I’ll talk with the first lady and make the appropriate arrangements for the painting. Thank you, Cullen.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

The President entered his wife’s Air Force One office without knocking. The room was smaller than his but similarly appointed with an oversized leather chair, wooden desk, sofa—where the first lady sat—and a bank of wall clocks displaying the time in major capital cities. Clouds floated past the window. “Alice, we need to have a chat.”

The first lady didn’t look up from the book she was reading, an advance copy of the latest Karin Slaughter novel. 

“Now.” His voice resonated with thunder. 

“What’s this about?” She closed the hardcover with a snap, punctuating her annoyance. 

Ivers stepped briskly toward her. Turbulence threw him off balance, but he rescued himself by slapping his hands on her desk. “You stole the Napoleon painting while we were guests of the French president.”

“What? I...I…”

“Don’t lie. I know you did.” The President sat on the sofa and locked eyes with her. “You were sloppy, Alice.”

“What do you mean?” Alice stroked her throat. 

“Your aide found the painting in your bag when she unpacked it.”

“Oh no. Did—?”

“She was discreet. So was Agent Cullen, who reported this directly to me. Nobody else knows, but we'll have to return the painting to Paris through back channels.” He clicked his tongue. “What a pity that is because it’s a great painting.” 

“Thank God.”

“Alice, you can’t become cavalier. That breeds sloppiness. You know that I love the collection we’ve amassed during our trips, especially the Fabergé egg from the Kremlin, ruby-handle dagger from the Quirinal Palace, Musha doll from the Sōri Kōtei, and gold Aztec mask from the Palácio do Planalto—they’re priceless, and they’re ours.” Ivers grinned. “You have terrific taste in art. In another lifetime, you were a museum curator.” 

The President kissed her as he rubbed his thumb across the back of her hand. “But sweetie, nobody must ever suspect us. Promise me you’ll be more careful next time.”

---

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