A Beautiful Heist (22 page)

I had to get out. But it was impossible. Worse, there was nowhere to hide. The room was a sealed steel cylinder. And in a matter of seconds the whole place would be filled with gas.

Wait
—the gas. Where was the gas coming from; was there a vent? A vent would be the only seam in the otherwise seamless wall. And a seam might offer somewhere to hide. I clung to that gossamer thread of hope with fierce desperation. With stinging eyes I moved toward the cloud of gas. The only mercy here was that it wasn’t a terribly quick-acting gas, so I had a few seconds. I hoped.

I crouched down, squinting at the vent. Was it big enough for me to crawl inside and hide? A very tight fit, but it was my only chance. I ripped off the vent door and hurled the bag containing the Fabergé inside. I’d have to back in, so I could close the vent behind me. I hooked my feet onto the edge and wriggled back in. My heart was squeezing tight:
please let this work.
A panicky thought occurred. Being so close to the source of the gas—might this cause an overdose?

Things were beginning to get fuzzy, blurry. I needed to stay awake long enough to get inside, just long enough to close the vent door after myself. I wriggled, gripping the cold metal door. At last I was in. With arms outstretched, I pulled the grate home. It clunked into place. The next moment I heard a loud thud from outside the vent, in the vault itself. There was shouting, and loud footsteps. The guards had arrived.

The world went black.

“Okay, Jack, what is it?” Nicole said, arms crossed, as they stood in the hallway just outside the security control room. “What did you drag me out here for?”

Jack was just at the point of having to make something up—dammit, he was not good at this—when the alarm sounded.

Sirens wailed from within the security offices. Jack and Nicole heard it, muffled, through the doors. They looked at each other, stunned a moment, then bolted back into the control room.

Commotion and turmoil greeted them. People were shouting at each other, frantically pulling up every possible CCTV feed onto the bank of screens. A team of security personnel rushed past them, out the door.

Jack and Nicole located the head of security. “What happened?” Jack demanded.

The head man was barking orders at everyone, but spared them a glance. “Vault breach,” he snarled.

“Which one?” Jack asked. But he already knew. He heard the word Bagreef mentioned. His stomach promptly curdled.

Jack and Nicole turned to join the security team going down to the vault. The head of security stepped in their path, stopping them. “Hold up. Where do you think you’re going?”

“To the vault. Like you.”

“No. You have no jurisdiction here. This is private property. If we want your involvement we’ll let you know.”

“There’s an obvious crime in progress here.” Jack swept an arm to indicate the pandemonium. “And that
makes
it our jurisdiction.”

The head of security’s jaw clamped shut. Jack could see he knew this was true.

When Jack and Nicole arrived outside the vault with the casino security team, they were forced to wait with everyone else while the gas cleared.

He turned to Nicole and hissed, “What did you see, back in the control room? You were pulling up the feeds in those inner vaults—did you notice anything?”

Nicole shook her head. “I didn’t have a chance to look before you dragged me away. I didn’t see a thing.”

The vault door swung open then, and the team poured in. Jack saw what everyone else did: an empty glass case. And no sign of a thief anywhere.

As the team quickly dispatched to search the casino and surrounding area, Jack stood rooted to the spot in front of the case. The truth hit him like a punch in the solar plexus. He was, at least in part, responsible for the Fabergé disappearing into thin air again. He’d pulled Nicole away from the screens because of his own paranoia. Nobody else had been monitoring that feed because the FBI had commandeered that work station.

If it wasn’t for him, would the thief have been caught in the act?

 

I became aware of my arms stretched out above my head, saw my hands in front of me if I turned my neck, which sent shards of pain down my spine. I was lying on my stomach. My face felt numb where it had been squashed against a cold metal floor.

In front of my hands I could see thin strips of light marking out a small square. And then the memory came flooding back. The vent door! A warm rush of relief poured through me. It actually worked. I was still in the ventilation shaft. And I was still alive. I could breathe. And the air smelled sweet and normal. No more burning.

I strained to hear outside. There was absolute silence.

The gears of my mind accelerated as I processed the clues. The guards must have come in—I remembered that happening—and found an empty vault. They would have had gas masks on, I was sure of that. They would have seen the Fabergé missing, so they wouldn’t have thought it was a false alarm. They might have decided that the intruder escaped before the vault door closed, in which case they would have cleared the air and vacated. I shifted my feet slightly and felt something heavy bounce against them. The Fabergé.

I had no idea how much time had elapsed. Minutes? Hours? I waited a little longer for consciousness to fully return. And then began my escape. Again.

I crawled out, gingerly. Moving quickly was not an option just yet, given the blinding headache I was dealing with. And the massive cramp in my left thigh. But I pushed through all that.

I shoved the vent out and it landed with a clang. I pushed myself forward with my toes, then hooked my fingers around the sharp metal edge and heaved with all my strength. Bit by bit I wriggled free of the shaft and found myself standing, once again, in the empty vault. I reached back in and retrieved the bag that contained the Fabergé. I quickly checked the time. Five a.m. I’d been in the vent for about six hours.

The vault looked the same—apart from a blatantly empty case where the Fabergé once resided. I imagined the cascade of reactions to
that
. I wondered who would be given the task of advising Gorlovich himself. I shuddered, and felt a fierce urge to get far, far away from there, posthaste.

I took care to not repeat my previous mistake. I recalibrated the vault with the security codes and strapped on my gear, ready to leave. I double-checked my anti-CCTV gadget. Functioning. But wait. What if there were guards posted outside the vault? No, that wasn’t likely. What would be the purpose in hanging around the site where the thief—not to mention the booty—so clearly were not?

But how could I be sure? The answer was, I couldn’t. I couldn’t stay in here any longer. I didn’t possess the ability to see through metal. I was just going to have to take the chance, and ready myself for conflict. My heart was pounding out of my rib cage as I opened the vault door.

But nobody was there.

The rest of my escape through the vault room and the corridors was uneventful.

As I made my way to the elevator a thought occurred to me, accompanied by a sinking feeling. How was I going to climb back up the elevator shaft? Surely they’d have repaired the elevator by then.

I thought for a moment, then flicked on my earpiece and pressed redial on my phone.

I held my breath and closed my eyes. If I could just get Gladys, I could sit tight until she locked the elevator—just long enough to climb out again.

There was a lengthy pause.

And then there was a click on the line. “
Cat?
Is that you, dear?” I pressed my fingertips to my closed eyelids and breathed again. Everything was going to be okay.

“Yes, Gladys, it’s me.”

“Oh heavens,” she said, “I thought you’d died.”

“To be honest, Gladys, it feels like I did.”

 

A few hours later, after a purposefully long and snaking route, I returned to my apartment.

First things first. I poured myself a generous drink and took a large gulp, sending two extra-strength aspirin down my throat. I then tucked myself safely in my secret room, and sent a text message to Sandor: The birthday gift is in pocket.

This was the code he insisted on. I assured him that the communication channels I used were entirely encrypted and secure, but he was resolute.

He swiftly texted me back, and we arranged a meeting time and place: nine p.m. tonight, Seattle pier. I wondered why he wanted to wait until nighttime. But it was fine. It gave me some time alone with the Aurora Egg. I removed it from my black nylon bag and placed it carefully on my desk.

Behind the desk, pinned up on a bulletin board, was an old photograph of me and my sister. The grainy image glowed with sunshine; we were caught, suspended in the air on playground swings, limbs summer-brown.

I was so near to completing the assignment, to closing the circle. Soon the Fabergé would be back to its rightful owners. I wondered: would I be able to look at that photograph without the familiar empty ache, then?

I picked up the Fabergé and held it in my hands, turning it this way and that.
Now. What are your secrets?
I whispered to the object in my palms. I found myself asking: what was to stop me from opening it and looking at what was inside? The answer I came up with: nothing.

I toyed with the gold clasp between my thumb and forefinger and then I recalled the conversation I’d overheard between Sandor and the monks.
Do not open it,
they’d said.
There will be great danger.

What did they mean by
danger
? Was I going to unleash some kind of curse? I smirked at this idea, but even so, I found myself hesitating. Briefly.

The tiny, intricate gold latch yielded with no trouble. I peered inside eagerly as the hinge opened. The entire interior surface was lined with gold, and a tiny gold statue of a pelican rested within. Two small glass vials with ornate gold stoppers were embedded in the statue. They each held pieces of waxy, rocklike stuff; one was yellowish and the other was red-brown.

I stared. The significance of what I was looking at remained completely obscure.

But I had an idea. I opened the stopper of the milky yellow stuff. I took a sniff. Warm, sweet, resinous fragrance curled up my nose. Pleasant, but not familiar. Using a pocket knife I shaved a miniscule sample and placed it gingerly in a Ziploc bag. The second vial contained the dark reddish brown chunks. It smelled sharper, slightly bitter, but still quite agreeable.

I tucked my samples inside a padded envelope and addressed it to Lucas at my trusty lab for analysis. I’d drop it off at the courier today, on my way.

As I extinguished the lights to my secret room and rekeyed the security pad, I couldn’t help a slight twinge of disappointment. I guess I’d hoped the “surprise” inside the Egg would be something a little more interesting.

Jack entered the barbershop with a feeling of dread.

Mr. Cole was seated in a burgundy leather and chrome barber’s chair. A bald man in a crisp white barber’s jacket stood behind him, pinning a black vinyl cape around his throat. A bowl of steaming water and a tall cylinder of blue Barbicide rested on the counter. The astringent smell of aftershave filled the air.

Wesley perched on a stool beside Mr. Cole. Jack leaned and sat down on the ledge of the front window.

“So?” Jack asked. When Cole had called him for this meeting, he had not sounded happy. Jack knew exactly why.

“Wesley tells me the Aurora Egg was stolen last night.”

Jack nodded, face dour. The barber began combing through Oliver Cole’s thick hair.

“Do you have any leads on who did it?” Jack asked. “Because the casino has nothing. And the FBI are coming up empty, too.”

“Well, there’s one obvious possibility”

Jack tightened his jaw. “Caliga.”

Wesley nodded. “But we don’t believe the Caliga could have pulled this off themselves—everyone knows they’ve lost the art of thievery. They must have hired someone else for the job.”

Lost, again. What had felt so close was now floating away, dissolving within Jack’s grasp. Was there any chance of finding it before the Caliga took it underground? Worse, was the thought of what they would do with it now.

Snip. Snip. Hair fell to the shiny, lacquered floor in a fuzzy snowfall. “We need to find the thief they hired,” Mr. Cole said. “We need to talk to that person.”

“If the thief is even still alive,” added Wesley.

Jack nodded grimly. Whoever the thief was, that person was in big trouble. The Caliga were ruthless and would certainly eliminate any loose threads. “How are you going to find him?” Jack asked.

“We have a short list of possibilities. One of the names that kept coming up was Cat Montgomery.” Mr. Cole turned his eyes toward Jack as the barber worked away on his sideburns. “What do you think?”

“No,” Jack said firmly. “Impossible. She’d never work for the Caliga.”

“Wesley advised me she was at the masquerade ball.”

“So?”

“It’s suggestive.”

Jack shook his head. He didn’t have a good explanation for her presence at the ball, but he was certain she wasn’t involved. He frowned. Mostly certain.

“Wesley tells me you have a blind spot when it comes to her.”

Jack glared at Wesley. The other man shrugged.

Mr. Cole continued. “Anyway, we need to question the thief, and learn the Caliga’s plans.”

A seed of doubt had now been placed in Jack’s brain. And he didn’t like it. “What makes you think the thief will tell you anything?” he asked.

Mr. Cole’s eyes hardened into flinty shards. “We have techniques.”

Jack rubbed his face and stared at the man. He had no illusions about Oliver Cole. He knew the man was accustomed to getting what he wanted and would use whatever means were available. Torture if necessary. Jack’s tongue felt dry. In spite of their common goal, in spite of working together with these people, he knew they were different types.

When Jack left the barbershop he pulled his coat collar up. The late afternoon sun burned bright, but cold. It matched the chill in his chest. Jack was further than ever from completing his quest. The Fabergé was, essentially, lost again. But more than that, he now had to worry about Cat—and whether she was in a snake pit of danger.