Heist Society

Kat wasn’t surprised to hear their silence.

Simon was the only one who moved. “The Visily Romani who robbed five Swiss banks in one night in 1932? The Visily Romani who made off with half the crown jewels of Russia in 1960?” Sweat gathered on Simon’s brow. “The Visily Romani?”

Hale leaned back and crossed his legs. “Don’t worry, Simon.” He popped another sandwich into his mouth. “It’s way worse than you think.”

Kat could practically feel the Bagshaws’ excitement.

Hamish rubbed his hands across the tops of his thighs, warming them, getting ready for something—anything.

Angus seemed to be calculating something in his head. “If he did a job in thirty-two, doesn’t that make him kind of . . . old?”

“Visily Romani is one of the Pseudonimas—the sacred names,” Kat explained.

“So this guy . . .” Angus trailed off, but pointed to the man on the screen.

“He could be anyone,” Simon finished.

Kat turned and stared out the window at the gardens and the grounds, the trappings of Hale’s world, as she thought about the laws of hers. “He could be anywhere.”

Simon was rising and starting to pace. “So we’re all here because we’ve got to . . .” he stammered, pointing to the screen. “You mean this is a . . .” He stopped and put his hands on his hips. His shirt was peeking out from underneath his sweater vest. His face was growing redder by the second. “I was under the impression that Pseudonimas are slightly . . .”

“Not to be messed with?” Gabrielle answered for him. Then she smiled. “Oh, they’re not. Or, well, they weren’t.”

“You can walk away right now. All of you,” Kat reminded them. “Uncle Eddie has already said it can’t—or maybe that it shouldn’t—be done.” She drew a deep breath, wondering for a moment if there was a difference. “I won’t blame any of you if you turn and leave right—”

“You kidding?” Hamish asked. “There’s a few hundred million Euros on those walls. Easy.” He glanced at his brother. “We’re in.”

“Yeah,” Kat said slowly. “Well, like I said, it’s not a typical job.” Kat didn’t know what was harder—what she had to say, or the way everyone looked at her while she said it. “Mr. Taccone has”—Kat considered her words carefully—“asked for our assistance retrieving the paintings.”

“So . . . what? There’s some kind of finder’s fee?” Angus asked.

“It’s not quite like that,” Kat admitted.

“More like a promise that Taccone won’t drown Uncle Bobby in his moat,” Gabrielle said simply.

Kat gave a weak smile as she looked at everyone. “And I’ll owe you.”

Kat expected her friends to need a moment to think. They should have taken a walk around the grounds to clear their heads, put their thoughts in order. Kat expected half of them to do her family proud and slip away noiselessly into the night, but amazingly, that didn’t happen.

Instead, Hamish slapped his brother on the back and said, “We’re in. Whatever you need, Kat.”

Simon held his hand to his mouth, biting his nails as he stared into space. Calculating. “Is Uncle Eddie going to find out about this?”

“Come on, Simon,” Hale answered. “What are the odds he already knows?”

The Bagshaws looked at each other, spoke at the exact same time. “Two to one.”

Simon gulped. But eventually he said, “Okay.”

Kat looked at Gabrielle, who had started polishing her toenails. The girl didn’t even look up, but as Kat opened her mouth to speak, Gabrielle said, “Duh,” and Kat knew there was nothing else to say on the subject.

“Great. Thanks. I guess we’ll start casing the target tomorrow.”

“What is the target?” Angus said slowly. Hale looked at Kat. For a moment it seemed okay.

And then Kat said, “The Henley.”

6 Days Until Deadline

Chapter 18

If you lived in 1921, and if you had more money than time, and if you were a woman, then there were very few acceptable ways in which you were allowed to fill your days. Some played cards. Others played music. Most surrounded themselves with dresses and hats, perfectly tended gardens and expertly steeped cups of tea. But Veronica Miles Henley had not belonged in 1921 . . . not really. And so Veronica Henley had turned her great fortune to her great passion and almost single-handedly built the greatest museum in the world.

Or so Katarina Bishop’s mother had told her. And so Kat herself still believed.

“Better than the Louvre?” Hale’s voice cut through the sound of the fountain in front of the glass-covered main entrance.

Kat rolled her eyes. “Too crowded.”

“The Tate?”

“Too pretentious.”

“The Egyptian Museum in Cairo?”

Kat leaned back and let her fingers trail through the water. “Way too hot.”

The surveillance cameras mounted on the walls that circled the Henley saw all of this, of course. They were perfectly positioned and highly calibrated—the best they could possibly be.

The two guards who stood sentry by each gate no doubt noticed the boy and girl who lingered by the fountain, eating sandwiches, throwing crumbs to the birds that landed on the square—just like a thousand other teenage couples that gathered here each year.

The guards might have seen the boy throw his arm around the girl’s neck and hold a camera out in front of them, snapping pictures. They might have noticed how the couple paced from one end of the wall to the next. They didn’t, of course, see that the pictures were really of the positions of the cameras; that their paced steps were mapping out the dimensions of the perimeter wall.

They were simply two teens who appeared to be in the midst of a great autumn.

But, of course, the guards didn’t see a lot of things.

If the guards at the Henley didn’t pay much attention to the boy and girl who were lingering outside, they certainly didn’t notice the two brothers who stood in line by the café, goofing off, taking silly pictures of things like doors and vents as they waited for a table. They did not see the pale boy with the backpack and a small digital gaming device who wandered the halls aimlessly . . . until he actually ran into one of the docents on patrol, falling to the hard floor in the process.

The device in his hand skidded across the marble floor.

“No!” the boy cried, chasing it. But as soon as it skidded to a stop at the feet of one of the Henley guards, the boy froze.

The guard leaned down and picked up the device. If he’d been more focused on the boy than the toy, he might have noticed that Simon was holding his breath and was every bit as pale as the marble statue that stood behind him. But the guard was too captivated by the maze of grids and dots and lines that filled the screen to notice the boy. “What is this?”

“Nothing!” Simon blurted far too quickly, but his baby face was too innocent to cause any worry for the docent and the guard.

The docent looked over the guard’s shoulder. “That’s Underworld Warrior Two, isn’t it?” the docent asked, leaning closer to examine the screen.

“Hey, what’s this—” The guard started hitting the red button, and Simon winced.

“Don’t . . . Don’t . . . Please don’t . . .”

“It’s really different from Underworld Warrior One, huh?” the guard asked, still punching the button, not knowing the chaos he was causing in the guardroom twenty feet away as every motion sensor in the building began to flash. “What’s this do?” The guard moved to a different button, but before he could short-circuit every electrical device within a dozen yards, Simon lunged for him.

“It’s sort of a . . . prototype,” he said, snatching the device out of the guard’s hand before the man’s colleagues noticed that anything was wrong. It should be pointed out that this was in fact the truth, and so Simon had no trouble saying, “My dad designs these things.”

The guard eyed the device again, then patted Simon on the back. “Lucky kid. You watch where you’re going, okay?”

“Will do,” Simon said, and that, more than anything, wasn’t a lie.

The docents at the Henley were used to seeing almost every sort of behavior from the thousands of guests who paraded through the museum each year.

But when a teenage girl in amazingly high heels stumbled through the halls that day, there was something about her that simply demanded the guards’ attention. Some said later it was her short skirt. Others wisely observed that it was more likely the legs that protruded beneath it. Whatever the case, their eyes were most certainly not on her hands.

“Wow!” the girl exclaimed too loudly as she walked into the room that had recently become known as the Romani Room. She craned her head to look at the ornate ceiling overhead. “That’s tall!”

The docents at the Henley did not know what every thief knows—that if there’s no way to do something without being seen, then it’s best to do it in a way that will be well and fully stared at.

“That,” Gabrielle said, spinning on her high heels and pointing at the painting that hung at the center of the room, “is pretty!”

The guards who were monitoring the Romani Room that day had never been accused of being lazy or slow, of being dense or unaware. But that did not change the fact that they had never seen a seemingly intoxicated young woman teeter across a marble floor and lunge for a painting worth a quarter of a million dollars.

The tourists, who, so far, had been far too proper to openly stare, had to hurry out of the way. The guards, who had been too busy studying the young woman’s legs to notice where those legs were carrying her, could only gape.

Her hand brushed against the frame, and her legs immediately stopped being the most interesting thing about her.

A shock echoed throughout the room. Metal grates descended from the ceiling, blocking the doors in a split second while women screamed and children cried and a siren pierced the air so loudly that men dropped their children’s hands to cover their own ears.

Even the guards cringed and bent over, the crackles of their walkie-talkies lost in the chaos of sirens and trapped tourists. When they remembered the girl with the long legs and the short skirt who lay on the cold marble floor, she was too unconscious and too pretty for anyone at the Henley to stay mad for long.

No one noticed the way Kat stood on the other side of the grates watching everything unfold, plugs in her ears blocking out the sound. Plans were already taking shape in her mind as she turned and walked slowly toward the exit.

If it hadn’t been for the alarms and the grates, the trapped tourists and the unconscious girl, someone at the Henley might have noticed the two goons who appeared at Kat’s side as if from nowhere.

They might have seen Kat and the men disappear behind the tinted glass of a stretch limousine and noted that Kat didn’t scream.

They might have heard her say, “Hello, Signor Taccone.”