The Eighth Guardian (18 page)

“At precisely 1:24 a.m. on the morning of March 18, 1990, two thieves disguised as uniformed police officers knocked on the museum’s service entrance door. They told the guard—a young, poorly trained college student—that they had been alerted to a disturbance at the museum related to the St. Patrick’s Day revelry that was still taking place on the streets of Boston. The guard buzzed them through the door.

“The two thieves then told the guard that he looked familiar and that they both had seen a warrant issued for his arrest. The guard stepped out from behind the desk, leaving the only panic button that would have alerted the real police force. The thieves then forced the guard to summon the other guard, and when he arrived, both were handcuffed and led to the basement. The thieves then wrapped the guards’ hands, feet, and heads in duct tape, and secured them to posts forty yards apart.”

Yellow and Violet are just sitting there listening, but I’m scribbling notes like crazy.

Zeta continues. “At approximately 1:48 a.m., the two thieves made their way up the main staircase into the Dutch Room on the second floor.” Zeta moves the pointer to the top right corner of the second floor. “For the next forty minutes the thieves tripped alarms as they traveled between the rooms on this floor. From the Dutch Room, they stole three Rembrandts, a Flinck,
The Concert
, and a nearly three-thousand-year-old Chinese bronze beaker. Across the floor in the Short Gallery”—the pointer whisks to a room on the left—“they stole five Degas drawings and a bronze finial that sat atop a pole holding a Napoleonic flag. At some point, a Manet was stolen from the Blue Room on the first floor as well”—the pointer falls on a room on the first floor that looks to be almost directly below the Short Gallery—“but investigators have not been able to determine the precise time it was stolen.

“The thieves exited the museum at 2:45 a.m., making off with half a billion dollars’ worth of art that has not been recovered. And after too many decades of false leads and no breakthroughs, the FBI director has decided that the loss to the art world is too great and the windfall to the thieves is too high. So he went to the president, and here we are.”

Zeta sets down the pointer and clasps his hands together in front of his body. I remember to take a breath.

“You get one shot to stop this thing. The thieves are very likely armed, and there is a chance that they’ll try to use their weapons. Iris—”

Zeta turns directly to me, and Yellow and Violet do the same.

“This mission is designed to play to your strengths,” Zeta says. “You’re the leader of this one. I want the three of you to spend the day at the museum. Get to know its ins and outs. Prepare yourself. Meet back here at five p.m. to get changed and ready.”

We catch the Green Line at Park Street and take the E to the MFA stop. Neither Violet nor Yellow say a word to me the entire train ride, and I don’t know if it’s the fact that they really don’t like me or if it’s bitterness that Zeta named me the leader. I snort.
Leader
. Right. A woman can’t lead without people willing to follow her.

“All right,” I say as the three of us stand in front of the museum, gazing up at its boxy brick exterior. The outside of the building is completely underwhelming. It could be a condo complex or even an old factory. “I think we should split up and—”

“Yeah, I got this,” Yellow says. “This is my fourth fire mission. I’ll wander around and make notes of the scene, and then I’ll devise a plan of action from there.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Maybe you didn’t hear Zeta, but I’m the leader of this mission.”

Yellow raises a perfectly plucked eyebrow. “He can name you whatever he wants, but I’m going to lead this mission.”

“Says who?” I ask.

“Violet?” Yellow turns to face her. “Who are you going to follow on this mission?”

“Duh,” she says. “Let’s go inside.”

Yellow gives me a smug look and brushes the hair off her shoulder. Then she and Violet walk toward the main entrance. I let them go. Idiots. They’re not even going to check out the service entrance? As soon as they’re inside, I make a left onto Palace Road. About half a block down, there it is. The service entrance. It’s a green door sticking out of what looks like a concrete addition. A guy and girl only a few years older than me stroll by, deep in a conversation about some party last weekend, and I bet they have no idea that half a billion dollars walked through this door years ago.

But we’re going to change all that tonight.

I double back to the front door and pay my admission fee. I have no idea where Yellow and Violet scampered off to, nor do I care. Screw them. I can do this myself.

I’ve never been to the Gardner before, and the courtyard takes my breath away. Sunlight beams down on grasses and plants, and it’s so pretty. Like being in a tropical garden. But I’m not here to gawk. I’m here to prevent a burglary.

I go up the main staircase. I’m standing in a long hallway with high arched windows overlooking the courtyard. I check the map they gave me downstairs again. This floor is laid out in a big rectangle with the courtyard in the middle. To my left is the Early Italian Room, which sits in a corner. If you round it, you hit the Raphael Room and the Short Gallery. That’s where all of the Degas drawings were taken from. To my right is the Dutch Room. That’s the money room. Three Rembrandts, a Flinck, the Chinese beaker, and the Vermeer. I start in there.

I imagine I’m one of the thieves. No doubt they’d visited the museum numerous times before the heist. The museum still has empty frames hanging where some of the pictures once were—a reminder of what was stolen. I walk past each of them and try to think like a criminal. Hands down, I would go for the Vermeer first. Get the most valuable one in case you have to abandon the rest and bolt. I walk the entire room, noting the empty frames, then double back past the hallway and through the Early Italian and Raphael Rooms into the Short Gallery.

This is a no-brainer. You have one person steal the pictures from the Dutch Room while the other is taking down all the Degases in the Short Gallery. Then you grab the Manet on the first floor on the way out.

So how do we prevent this? The easiest thing to do would be to stop the guards from even opening the door in the first place. We take down the fake cops on the street and then we don’t have to go into the museum at all.

But a little voice nags me that this plan won’t work in the long run. The thieves will just come back another night. No, the only way to truly end this thing is to end it in the museum. To stop the burglary while it’s in process. I’m suddenly conscious of my heart beating away inside my chest, and I don’t know if it’s nerves or excitement. Probably both.

I find Yellow and Violet downstairs in the courtyard.

“There you are,” Violet snaps. “We’ve been ready to go for like twenty minutes.”

I check my watch. It’s eleven thirty. “We have until five to get back.”

The two of them stare at me, blank faced.

I shake my head. “I thought it would be best if we made a plan of attack. I figure we put one person in the Dutch Room and one by the Short Gallery upstairs, then we have one of us act as backup down in the Blue Room where the Manet is. That way if—”

Yellow holds up a hand, cutting me off. “Why are you talking? We’ve already got it figured out. We’re going to wait outside and call the police to report two suspicious individuals loitering around. That way they never have to enter the museum. We save the art and spare the guards the trauma of thinking they’re going to be dragged to the basement and shot in the head. Win-win.”

“Yeah, and what happens when they come back the next night?” I ask. “You’re going to leave that to chance? Uh-uh. We need to find a way inside the museum so that we can be there when the break-in happens. Then we apprehend the perps, tie them up, and bolt back to the present before we’re seen by the cops. We’ll be nameless, faceless heroes.”

“No,” Yellow says. “This mission is to prevent the burglary from happening. We’re going to do it the quick, easy way.”

“That’s not going to work!”

“Violet, are you ready?” Yellow asks. Violet nods, and the two of them turn and head toward the front door.

“Listen to me!” I shout after them, but they’re already gone.

I ball up my hands into fists. I want to punch something. Or
someone
. I’m not going to let her blow the entire mission. I’ll do this myself. I head back up the stairs. I’m about to learn every square inch of this museum. And I’m going to be here on March 18, 1990, at 1:24 a.m.

I rifle through the clothes hanging in my closet. 1990. What was popular in 1990? I think of all the old sitcom reruns my mom liked to watch back when she was still having normal phases—before she started rapid cycling—and pull out a pair of black jeans. I slip them on and roll up the bottoms, then grab a plain black sweater. I shove my feet into black sneakers and hope this is close enough. Before I leave, I pull my dark hair back into a ponytail. Simple. And then I grab my bag. Can’t do anything without the stuff in this bag.

Yellow and Violet are already standing with Zeta in the main room. Zeta’s still wearing khakis and a sweater, so I guess he’s not joining us. I won’t lie—I wish that he was. I mean, I get the whole trial-by-fire thing, but not having him on this mission seems more like trial-by-volcanic-eruption-spewing-lava-onto-the-unprepared-people-of-Pompeii. Annum Guard has a warped way of doing things, that’s for sure.

Zeta has a serious expression on his face—I’m starting to wonder whether he
has
any other expression—and the flecks of gray at his temples seem to have multiplied since this morning, and he’s clasping his hands together so tightly his veins are bulging out of his forearms. At least someone else recognizes the importance of this mission.

Speaking of my oh-so-competent teammates, Yellow has on skin-tight, high-waisted black jeans with a leather motorcycle jacket. Her hair is teased and frizzed and piled half on top of her head in a ponytail that resembles an ostrich plume. The whole look is not at all fashionable today, but somehow Yellow pulls it off. I hate to admit it, but she does. Violet’s wearing black leggings with a black miniskirt and a black off-the-shoulder sweater. She’s ditched the purple wig, and her real hair is cut supershort, like a pixie. I sort of look like the homeless cousin next to them, and both of them stare at me when I walk in. But I don’t care. I’m going to stop a burglary tonight. The two of them can do whatever they want.

“One shot,” Zeta tells us. “That’s all you get to stop this.”

“I still don’t understand why we only get one shot,” I say.

Zeta turns to me with patient eyes. Polar opposite from the Boston Massacre, the last time I asked this question. “It’s not our doing; it’s the wormhole. Once you open it to a specific date, your watch can’t go back there again.”

“What about someone else’s?”

Zeta tilts his head to the side an inch. “It’s possible, but then you’d run the risk of injuring your fellow team members on a mission you bungled in the first place. Too many cooks in the kitchen, so to speak. Does that make sense?”

I guess? Not really.

“Plus it gives you a false sense of security,” Zeta says. “No do-overs. It’s a better motto. Now are you ready?”

We all set our watches for midnight on March 18. That will give us almost an hour and a half to get to the museum before the thieves knock on the door dressed like cops. I spent four hours after Violet and Yellow left, trying to figure out a way to break into the museum beforehand, but I failed. It’s just impossible. There are too many alarms and too many cameras. Going to have to go in after the thieves. It’s the only way.

Yellow enters the gravity chamber first. Zeta shuts the door behind her, waits a few seconds, and opens it for Violet. And then it’s my turn. Zeta puts out his arm to stop me.

“You can do this,” he tells me.

“I know,” I say. I’m staring straight ahead at the door, bouncing back and forth between my heels. I’m a bundle of nervous energy, and I just want to go already.

“I believe in you, Iris.” Zeta’s voice sounds different than it ever has. It’s softer. There’s no intensity in it. He really wants me to succeed. It’s as if he knows I’m the only one who can. I turn to look at him.

“I won’t fail,” I tell him. Zeta nods his head and opens the door, and as I hurl myself through it, all I can think is that I hope I’m right.

I land in the broom closet. It’s dark, and I can’t make out my hand five inches in front of me, but I don’t sense anyone else.

“Yellow?” I whisper. “Violet?”

Nothing. I fumble around, tripping over something long and wooden, until I find the handle that leads into the alleyway. Yellow and Violet are already turning onto Beacon Street when I step out.

“Hey!” I call to them. “What the hell?”

“Keep up,” Yellow tosses over her shoulder. Neither of them slows down.

I want to slam the door, but that will only attract attention, so I shut it as softly as I can. And then I punch the air.

St. Patrick’s Day festivities are in full swing as I step onto Beacon Street, even though there’s a cold, light rain falling. A group of drunken college girls wearing green, oversize shirts tucked into light-wash, high-waisted jeans stumble past me. One of the girls has on a glittery shamrock headband that bounces as she ambles by.