Heist Society

Kat didn’t know if it was nerves or stress or the heat of the sun in that glass room, but the first beads of sweat were starting to appear on Nick’s brow. And so she asked herself the simple question: What would her father say? Or Uncle Eddie? Or her mom?

“Busy,” she said, citing every great thief she’d ever known, smiling as if she were just another girl and this was just another day, “is very, very good.”

Pretend and it will be true. Gabrielle would never know which member of her family had said it first, but that was the thought that filled her mind as she put one foot in front of the other, sashaying through the Henley’s largest room.

“This way.” Her voice was clear and smooth like the modern sculpture that twirled overhead, catching rays of sunshine and sending them spinning around the grand space. “The Henley’s famous promenade was designed by Mrs. Henley herself in 1922.”

No one in the group of tourists that trailed behind her seemed to notice that her skirt was a little shorter than dictated by the Henley’s official handbook. Or that her heels were slightly too high.

“If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to the Henley’s magnificent Impressionist gallery, which is home to the largest collection of Renoirs in the world. Thanks to a generous contribution from one of our benefactors, we will be able to offer you sole use of this space for the entire afternoon.”

The guards who manned the security room that morning were veterans. Collectively, the team assembled behind the bank of monitors had seen almost everything in their day, from couples kissing in elevators to mothers scolding children in dark corners, businessmen who picked their noses when they thought no one was looking, and a very famous movie star who had been caught on camera making a most unfortunate decision about a pair of seemingly uncomfortable underpants.

So when the two workmen from Binder & Sloan Industrial Heating and Air arrived at the service entrance, this same security staff looked at the two young men with a skepticism that comes from years of practice.

“Morning, gents,” Angus said as he climbed from the driver’s seat of the large van that Hale had secured for that very purpose. “We hear someone’s got a”—he made a show of reading from the clipboard in his hand—“faulty Windsor Elite furnace. We’re here to fix it.”

The guard in charge took a moment to closely examine the two men. They didn’t look much older than boys. Their blue coveralls seemed to bulge as if they had looked at the snow that morning and put on an extra set of clothes to protect against the chill. Something about the pair was odd, to say the least. But the memo about the faulty furnace had been sent from Gregory Wainwright himself, so the guard saw nothing wrong with pointing toward a large set of double doors and saying, “Furnace is in the basement—right down there.”

“Basement?” Hamish cried, then glanced at his brother. “You hear this fellow? He thinks we can just go on down to the furnace and start tinkering?”

Angus laughed. “He probably wouldn’t care at all if the whole place went boom, he wouldn’t.”

At this the guard bristled and stood up even straighter. “Now see here—”

“No, you see, my good man. Out here, see, we’ve got snow. So in there, I’d bet, you’ve got heat. And where there’s heat there’s gas; and where there’s gas there’s . . .”

Angus trailed off while his brother said, “Boom.”

“So where do you need to go?” the guard asked in disgust.

Angus tapped the clipboard in his hand. “First floor. Main corridor.”

The guard looked at the Bagshaws one final time. He did not see the boys hold their breath as they waited to hear him say, “Well . . . all right.”

In such a public place, on such a busy day, it was no surprise at all that no one worried when a smaller-than-average boy with curly hair and a shirt that never stayed tucked in, slipped into the men’s room on the second floor. Of course, they also didn’t hear the same boy say, “Kat, I’m in position in my . . . office.”

As offices went, sadly, Simon had seen worse. The bathroom stall was larger than the closet he’d been locked inside in Istanbul. The toilet was far more comfortable than the tree stump he’d been forced to use as a desk in Buenos Aires.

He sat perfectly still, waiting for his laptop to start up, and as he looked down at the video image of Gregory Wainwright asleep in his office, Simon had to smile and think that he had been in far worse situations indeed.

Kat had been right fifteen days before when she’d sat in the library of Hale’s upstate house and asked if his family owned a cell phone company. Fifteen days. Somehow, to Hale, it felt longer.

When his phone rang, Hale answered but didn’t say hello. He stood outside the Henley, braced against the cold, and listened to Uncle Eddie’s gruff “I heard from Paris. You were right about him.”

And that was all either of them had to say. Hale slowly slipped the phone back into his pocket and stared at the big glass door.

“Well, are we getting on with this, or aren’t we?” Marcus’s voice brought Hale back to the moment. “Be mindful of the”— the sound of the thump cut him off midsentence—“bump.”

As Katarina Bishop walked down the long hallway toward the Romani Room, she didn’t seem to notice the two boys in the blue jumpsuits who were busily working around an open vent and several large machines. She skirted around the temporary barriers and nodded politely at one of the uniformed guards who stood nearby.

The man nodded back and said, “Sorry about the work, miss. Can I help you find something?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Kat looked at the art-lined hallway as if she were seeing it for the first time. “I’m just . . . looking, I guess.”

“You go ahead and look all you want. But don’t touch.” The guard chuckled.

And as Kat stepped into the Romani Room, she smiled and thought, Oh, I wouldn’t dare.

Sometime in the past week, the Henley’s least impressive collection had become Katarina Bishop’s favorite. Maybe it was the simple brushstrokes, the subdued use of light. Or maybe Kat was simply drawn to the other paintings that hung in that room—the ones the tourists couldn’t see.

Collectively, Arturo Taccone’s paintings were worth more than half a billion dollars . . . and her father’s life.

“How are we doing, Simon?” she whispered into the small microphone in her collar.

“Just about . . .” Simon started slowly. And then he stopped. “Wow.”

“What?” she asked, panic in her voice.

“Nothing,” he said too quickly.

“What?” she asked again.

“Well . . . it’s just that . . . your boobs look even bigger on TV.”

Kat took that opportunity to turn and glare at the nearest security camera. In his bathroom stall thirty feet away, Simon nearly fell off the toilet.

Kat wanted to look at her watch, but she didn’t dare. It was really happening, and there was nothing she could do to reverse it.

The crowd at the mouth of the Romani Room was already parting. Girls were turning to stare at the young billionaire entering the room. And in front of him—in a wheelchair—was Marcus.

“You see him?” Simon said in Kat’s ear, and she started to nod, but in that instant, Hale caught Kat’s eyes across the room.

They weren’t supposed to know each other.

There wasn’t supposed to be a look. A word. Not even the smallest glance.

And yet Hale was staring right at her, a desperate look in his eyes.

“Slow down!” Marcus snapped, and Kat wasn’t sure whether he was in character or not. He was supposed to be a cantankerous old man, but it was also true that Hale was proceeding far too quickly in her direction. “Let me out of this contraption!” Marcus shouted.

This seemed to remind Hale that there was a larger game at play. He stopped the wheelchair, and Marcus gripped the handrails as if attempting to push himself up.

“Now, Uncle,” Hale started, leaning down toward the man who was no more his blood relative than Uncle Eddie, “you know the doctors said—”

“Doctors!” Marcus snapped. It was the single-loudest thing Kat had ever heard him say. The word echoed in the long room. More people were turning to stare. Kat worried that Marcus might be enjoying his moment a bit too much, but there was nothing she could do about it.

“Don’t just stand there!” he snapped at Hale in the manner of someone who had several years’ worth of snaps bottled up inside of him and was very much enjoying this opportunity to let them out. “Help me up.”

He tried to push himself upright, but again Hale was there to discourage him.

“But, Uncle, wouldn’t you enjoy the collection more from the comfort of—”

“If you expect me to look at art from that angle, you’re as stupid as you are insolent.”

A look of complete satisfaction gleamed in Marcus’s eyes, and Kat didn’t know if he was speaking as Hale’s butler or his “Uncle” right then, but it was almost worth the price of everything to see Hale forced to take Marcus’s elbow and help him to stand.

“You know, I met Picasso once.” Marcus nodded toward a painting. “He was a pompous old—”

“Come this way, Uncle,” Hale said, still holding Marcus’s arm, but forgetting about the wheelchair and the crowds, the ticking clock and the job. Instead, he seemed to have one purpose as he crossed the room, staring at the girl in the corner.

Stick to the plan, Kat tried to tell him with her eyes.

I need to talk to you, Hale seemed to say.

The crowd was growing thicker. Hale was growing closer. Kat had the sinking feeling that maybe everything was going to run off track before it even started.

And then a voice cut through the crowd.

“Mr. Hale?” Gregory Wainwright’s voice was strong and clear. “I thought that was you. How do you do, sir?” Mr. Wainwright said, turning to Marcus.

Marcus, it seemed, was not quite as prepared to speak to other people as he was to insult Hale. “I . . . um . . . I . . . I loathe women in trousers!”

As Gregory Wainwright studied the man, Kat began to wonder if she might be allowed to share a cell with her father in prison, but then the Henley’s director did what people whose careers depend on donations always do: he smiled. And nodded. And said, “Quite right, sir. Quite right indeed.”

“Mr. Wainwright,” Hale said, snapping back into character, “how are you today?” Despite his words, he was still easing toward Kat. The clock was still ticking—too loudly—in her mind.

“Very well indeed, sir. So nice to see you again. And you”— he turned to Marcus—“you must be . . .”

“Fitzwilliam Hale,” Marcus said, reaching up to shake the man’s hand. “The . . . Third,” he added at the last second. Hale looked like he wanted to roll his eyes. Kat felt like she wanted to strangle both of them.

“Your nephew was kind enough to tell me about his Monet a few days ago,” the curator told Marcus.