It seemed to some as if the schoolchildren who had been locked in the Impressionist exhibit that day had simply gathered their bags and blank canvases, and walked out into the autumn air, and faded like smoke.
One of the docents reported seeing the children board a waiting school bus, an older driver at the wheel.
Many people tried in vain to gain a statement from officials at the Knightsbury Institute, but no one could uncover where the school was located—there certainly was no record of any such institution in London. Not in all of England. Some of the children had sounded American, the guards had said, but after three weeks of failed attempts, the coughing children with their hazy eyes were forgotten for a bigger story on another day.
No one saw the man in the Bentley who sat watching them walk from the museum in a single line. No one but he noticed that the portfolios they carried were a tad too thick.
No one but his driver heard him whisper, “Katarina.”
Chapter 35
Gregory Wainwright was not a foolish man. He swore this to his wife and to his therapist. His mother assured him of that fact every Sunday when he visited her for tea. No one who truly knew him thought that he was personally responsible for Henley security—he employed specialists for such things, after all. But the Angel . . . the Angel had gone missing. Had disappeared. And so Gregory Wainwright was fairly certain that the powers that be at the Henley would be inclined to disagree.
Perhaps that is why he did not tell a soul that his security card had somehow gone missing in the chaos of the fire. Perhaps that is why he did not say a lot of things.
If it had been another painting, perhaps all might have been forgiven. But the Angel ? Losing the Angel was too much.
The article that appeared in the evening edition of the London Times was not exactly what the public had expected. Of course, the color picture of the lost Leonardo loomed large in the center of the page. It went without saying that a headline about the robbery at the Henley dominated everything above the fold. And it was only a matter of time, Gregory Wainwright knew, before the old stories about the Angel would resurface. His only surprise was that it had taken less than twenty-four hours for the press to turn the story from a recounting of the Henley’s—and society’s—loss, to a retelling of the Henley’s shame.
It wasn’t Wainwright’s fault that Veronica Miles Henley had purchased the Angel soon after the end of World War II. Wainwright hadn’t taken the painting from its original owner and offered it to a high-ranking banking official who had been of great service to the Nazi party. Gregory Wainwright wasn’t the judge who had ruled that, since the Angel had been purchased in good faith from the banking official’s estate, and since it would hang in a public exhibit, it should not be forcibly removed from the museum’s walls.
None of this was my fault! the man wanted to scream. But, of course, screaming simply is not done. Or so his mother told him.
The press was loving all of it. The Henley was being villified, and Romani was being made out as some sort of hero—a Robin Hood who headed a merry band of thieves.
Still, if there was one thing that Gregory Wainwright could be grateful for, it was that the journalists never heard about the boy.
Wainwright remembered every detail of that day as if he were reliving it over and over again. . . .
“Our guards assure me that the room in which you were found had been completely evacuated prior to the fire-protection procedures taking effect,” Gregory Wainwright said as he sat across from the young man with the dark hair and blue eyes, in the small interrogation room of Scotland Yard. The detectives had assured him that they were too concerned with tracking down the real thief to take much time with the boy; but the Henley’s director had felt otherwise.
“I’m not going to sue,” was the boy’s only answer.
“How exactly did you get into that exhibit?” the man asked again.
“I told you. I told the guy before you. I told the guys before him, and all the way back to the guys who found me, I was in the exhibit when the sirens sounded. I tripped on my way to the door. By the time I got up, I was locked in.”
“But I was in that room. I personally can attest to the fact that our doors only lock when a room has been evacuated.”
The boy shrugged. “Maybe you’ve got a security problem.” This was, if anything, an understatement, but Mr. Wainwright was not in the mood to say so. “Maybe my mom can help you with that,” the boy offered. “She’s real good at that stuff. You know she works for Interpol.”
The woman at the boy’s side was attractive and well dressed, Gregory Wainwright could see. He had, after all, an eye for framing people; so many of them walked through the Henley’s doors every day. He knew tourists and collectors, critics and snobs, but he could not truly grasp the woman in front of him.
“How did you survive the oxygen deprivation measures?” the director asked, and the boy shrugged.
“Some old dude left his wheelchair. He must have breathing problems, because there was oxygen on the back.”
Gregory Wainwright winced slightly as one of the richest men in the world was referred to as “some old dude,” but he said nothing.
The woman began to stand. “I understand if there are waivers or documents which you will need us to sign, but I can assure you, you have no grounds to hold my son, and he’s been through quite an ordeal.”
“I’m afraid your son cannot go anywhere until he has been cleared of—”
“Cleared?” the boy snapped. Gregory Wainwright could not be sure if it was indignation or fear, but there was no mistaking the edge in his tone.
“I was under the impression that the robbery took place in a different wing of the museum,” the mother said.
The boy held his arms out wide. “Search me. Go ahead. Just tell me this: exactly what did I take?” His mother placed a calming hand on her son’s shoulder, but her look at Wainwright seemed to say that that was an excellent question.
“We have no interest in prolonging this matter, Mr. Wainwright,” the woman said coolly. “I’m sure you have many things to do today. If I could offer some advice, I’d remind you that in matters such as these, time is essential. If you don’t recover her within one week, you will likely never do so.”
“I know,” the director said, pressing his thin lips together in a tight line.
“And, of course, even if she is recovered, fifteenth-century paintings do not do well when they are shoved into duffel bags or thrown into the trunks of cars.”
“I know,” the director said again.
“And I’m sure I do not need to tell you that what happened to my son today was no accident?”
For the first time, it seemed as if the woman held his full attention. The man gaped, looking from mother to son as if he didn’t have a clue what to say.
“Someone planned that fire, Mr. Wainwright,” she said, and then laughed a very soft laugh. “But I feel silly telling you this.” Her dark red lips curled into a soft smile. “I’m sure you probably already know that it was nothing more than a massive diversion.” She held one elegant palm over the other. “A sleight of hand.”
The museum director blinked. He felt somehow as if he too were still trapped in the oxygen deprivation chamber while a fire raged outside the door. Amelia Bennett stood to her full height and gestured for her son to join her.
“I’m sure a man like you must already know that my son is as much a victim of Visily Romani as you are.”
And with that, the final child who had been locked in the Henley that day turned and walked out the door—vanished without a trace.
And Gregory Wainwright was able to go about his nervous breakdown in peace.
Day Of The Deadline
Chapter 36
Twenty-four hours after the robbery at the Henley, it was raining in Paris. Arturo Taccone’s French driver pulled his limo (a classic Mercedes, this time in dark blue) to the side of the road and allowed the man to stare out at the narrow street lined with small shops. He was not prepared for the tap on the foggy window or the sight of a girl who was too small and too tired for her age crawling into the backseat beside him.
She shook her short hair slightly, and water splashed across the tan leather seats, but Arturo Taccone did not mind. He had too many other emotions right then, and the largest of which— he scarcely dared to admit—was regret that it was over.
“I have heard that cats don’t like the rain,” he said, gesturing to her frizzy hair and drenched raincoat. “I can see that it is so.”
“I’ve been in worse,” she said, and somehow he didn’t doubt it.
“I’m very glad to see you, Katarina. Alive and well.”
“Because you were afraid I had been burned alive at the Henley, or because you were afraid I might get caught and use our arrangement as a bargaining chip?”
“Both,” the man conceded.
“Or were you most concerned that I might take your paintings and disappear myself? That they might go underground for another half century or so?”
He studied her anew. It was rare to find someone who was both so young and so wise, both so fresh and so jaded. “I admit I have been hoping that you might have brought me, shall we say, a bonus? I would pay handsomely for the Angel. She would fit in my collection very nicely.”
“I didn’t take the da Vinci,” she said flatly. Taccone laughed.
“And your father did not take my paintings,” he said, indulging her, still unwilling to believe. “You do, indeed, have a most interesting family. And you, Katarina, are a most exceptional girl.”
She felt it was her turn to return the compliment, but there were some lies that even Uncle Eddie’s great-niece couldn’t tell. So instead she just asked, “My father?”
Taccone shrugged. “His debt to me is forgiven. It has been most”—he considered his words—“enjoyable. Perhaps he will steal something from me again sometime.”
“He didn’t—” Kat started, but then thought better of it.
Taccone nodded. “Yes, Katarina, let us not leave things with a lie.”
Kat looked at him as if to measure what amount of truth might lie in the soul of a man like Arturo Taccone, if any soul at all remained.
“The paintings are in pristine condition. Not even a fleck of paint is out of order.”
Taccone adjusted his leather gloves. “I expected nothing less of you.”
“They are ready to go home.” Her voice cracked, and Taccone knew somehow that she wasn’t lying—there was a sincere longing in her words. “They’re across the street,” she told him. “An abandoned apartment.” She pointed through the foggy windows. “There,” she said. “The one next to that gallery.”
Taccone followed her gaze. “I see.”
“We’re finished,” she reminded him.
He studied her. “We don’t have to be. As I said before, a man in my position could make a young woman like yourself richer than her wildest dreams.”
Kat eased toward the door. “I know rich, Mr. Taccone. I think I’ll just aim for happy.”