He thought we could have taken more
In October 2025, two men slipped into the Louvre's Apollo Gallery and emerged with €88 million worth of Napoleonic jewels — a theft that shook one of civilization's great temples of memory and forced its director from office. Months later, interrogation transcripts have surfaced suggesting the heist was commissioned by an unnamed figure who, far from celebrating the audacity of the crime, was disappointed his hired hands hadn't taken more. It is a story as old as greed itself: the architect of a transgression, hidden in shadow, measuring the wreckage of others' courage against his own appetite.
- An €88 million heist at the world's most visited museum — including the shattering of a crown once worn by Empress Eugénie — sent shockwaves through the art world and cost the Louvre's director his position.
- Interrogation transcripts reveal the two suspects were recruited in a matter of days, paid between €15,000 and €25,000 each, and shown a video walkthrough of the gallery's display cases as their only preparation.
- The alleged mastermind remains unidentified and at large, reportedly furious that his operatives fled before emptying the cases — a frustration that underscores how calculated and commercially driven the operation was.
- Both suspects are refusing to name the organizer or any accomplices, describing threatening phone calls received even while in detention and characterizing those behind the plot as people not to be crossed.
- Investigators have yet to confirm the men acted on anyone's orders, the stolen jewels remain unrecovered, and the case sits unresolved — suspended between two frightened men and a shadow no one will name.
In October 2025, two men broke into the Louvre's Apollo Gallery and left with eight pieces of Napoleonic jewelry — tiaras, necklaces, a brooch, earrings — valued at €88 million. In the chaos of their escape, a gem-encrusted crown that had belonged to Empress Eugénie was dropped and shattered on the gallery floor. The theft made headlines across the world and led to the resignation of the museum's director.
Months later, transcripts from the suspects' interrogations have emerged, painting a picture of a rushed, commissioned job gone only partially right. The two men — identified as Abdoulaye N and Ghelamallah A — told investigating judges they had been hired just two or three days before the break-in by a client they refused to name. They had been shown a video filmed inside the gallery, a walkthrough of the display cases holding the Napoleonic collection. The instructions were simple: break the glass, take what you can.
Abdoulaye N, who admitted to dropping the crown, said he had been in financial difficulty when approached and was promised €15,000 to €20,000 for the job. Ghelamallah A claimed he had been told the target was merely a jewelry workshop in Paris — not the Louvre — and negotiated €20,000 to €25,000. 'I would never have set foot there if I had known,' he said.
On the night of the heist, the pair accessed a first-floor balcony via a furniture lift and broke through the Apollo Gallery window. Working in near-darkness, aware of security in the distance, they cut open two display cases and fled with their haul in under three minutes. When they delivered the seven remaining pieces to the alleged organizer — the crown had been lost — his response was not relief but frustration. He believed they should have taken more.
Both men have since refused to identify the mastermind or any accomplices. They describe receiving threatening calls from outside while in detention, and speak of the people behind the operation with unmistakable fear. Investigators have not yet confirmed the men were acting on anyone's behalf. The jewels remain missing, the organizer unnamed, and the full truth of what happened inside the Apollo Gallery that night still closely held by two men who, for now, are choosing silence over safety.
In October 2025, two men broke into the Louvre's Apollo Gallery and walked out with eight pieces of jewelry—tiaras, a brooch, necklaces, earrings—worth €88 million. They also dropped a gem-encrusted crown that had belonged to Empress Eugénie, wife of Napoleon III, and it shattered on the floor. The theft made headlines worldwide and forced the museum's director to resign. Now, months later, transcripts of the suspects' interrogations have surfaced, and they tell a story of a heist that disappointed its architect.
The two men, identified locally as Abdoulaye N and Ghelamallah A, were questioned by investigating judges last month. According to Le Monde, which obtained the transcripts, they claimed they had been hired by someone they refused to name—a client they feared, someone connected enough to make threatening phone calls to them even while they sat in detention. The mastermind, they said, was unhappy with what they had managed to steal. He believed they could have taken more.
Abdoulaye N, described as a former minor social media personality with a passion for motorcycles, admitted he was the one who dropped the crown. When shown a photograph of the damaged piece, he told the judges: "What we did wasn't right, it's very serious." He said he had been in financial trouble when approached for the job, promised between €15,000 and €20,000, with the possibility of more depending on how much the stolen goods would fetch. Ghelamallah A, who claimed he had been misled about the target—told it was simply a jewelry workshop in Paris, not the world's most visited museum—negotiated a fee of €20,000 to €25,000. "I would never have set foot there if I had known," he said.
The planning was minimal and rushed. Both men said they had been recruited only two or three days before the break-in. They were shown a video filmed inside the gallery, a walkthrough of the display cases containing the Napoleonic jewels. The instructions were straightforward: break the windows, grab what you can. The client's motive was purely financial—he intended to resell the stolen pieces.
On the night of the heist, they gained access to a first-floor balcony using a furniture lift, then broke through the Apollo Gallery window. Inside, the museum was dark except for the lights illuminating the display cases. Abdoulaye N could see security moving in the distance, behind a door. They knew they were working against a clock. "We had to take as much jewellery as we could," he told investigators. "If we take more than three minutes, we know we have to leave, otherwise we'll be reported. For me, what we did was taking too long." They cut open two display cases and fled with their haul.
When they handed over the remaining seven pieces to the alleged mastermind—the crown had been lost in the escape—his reaction was one of frustration. He thought they should have grabbed more. The suspects have since refused to identify him or any accomplices, citing fear of reprisals. Ghelamallah A described the people behind the operation in blunt terms: "They're no choirboys." Abdoulaye N was more direct about the pressure he felt. "I wasn't threatened," he said, "but I received calls from outside. They told me to keep quiet."
Investigators have not yet confirmed whether the two men were actually working on behalf of anyone at all. The case remains open, the mastermind unnamed, and the stolen jewels unrecovered. What began as a carefully planned theft—a video walkthrough, a tight timeline, a client with resale connections—ended with a disappointed organizer, a shattered crown, and two men in custody who know far more than they are willing to say.
Citações Notáveis
What we did wasn't right, it's very serious.— Abdoulaye N, when shown a photograph of the damaged crown
I would never have set foot there if I had known it was the Louvre.— Ghelamallah A, claiming he was told the target was a jewelry workshop
A Conversa do Hearth Outra perspectiva sobre a história
Why would someone plan such an elaborate heist and then be disappointed with the result? They got €88 million.
Because the person who planned it never had to go inside. They saw the video, they knew what was in those cases, and they thought their team could have moved faster, grabbed more. The thieves were racing against time—three minutes, they said. The mastermind wasn't there feeling that pressure.
The crown that fell—Empress Eugénie's crown—that seems almost symbolic. The most famous piece, and it's the one they lost.
It is. And Abdoulaye N admitted it immediately. He knew what he'd done. He even said to the judges, "What we did wasn't right, it's very serious." There's a kind of reckoning in that moment, when he saw the photograph of the broken crown.
Why would they refuse to name the mastermind? They're already caught. What more can happen to them?
They said they received calls while in detention. Threatening calls. These aren't people operating alone—there's a network, people on the outside. The mastermind has reach. That's real fear, not theoretical.
Ghelamallah A said he didn't even know he was robbing the Louvre. He thought it was a jewelry workshop.
That's either true or a convenient story. But it matters either way. It suggests the mastermind compartmentalized information, told each person only what they needed to know. Classic organized crime tradecraft. If one person gets caught, they can't give up the whole operation.
Do you think the jewels will ever be recovered?
The transcripts don't suggest investigators are close. The suspects won't talk, the mastermind is still unknown, and the jewels have presumably already been moved through whatever resale network was planned. The heist worked, in the end. The disappointment was just about greed.