A Beautiful Heist (24 page)

I’d been a little hesitant when he’d first invited me. I hadn’t actually seen Ethan since our—
ahem
—night together at his apartment.

“Come on, Cat, it’ll be a great distraction for you,” he’d said earlier today, cajoling me to come along. “And I know you need a little of that.” He was well aware of my recent offense and near-firing from AB&T. I had been pretty hot gossip at Agency watercoolers.

The residual awkwardness when he’d first picked me up quickly dissolved, then we simply became two regular thieves out for a pleasant afternoon at an art gallery.

We entered the main foyer. A grand vaulted ceiling soared away from us, high above the intricate mosaic floor. Sounds echoed, cathedral-like. The poster in the foyer announced a visiting exhibit on Russian portraits.

Ethan turned to me. “Okay, I’m going to take stock of the camera locations and get a fix on their infrared system,” he said in a low voice. “You look around and enjoy yourself. Then we’ll get some lunch, okay? The gallery café is excellent.” He winked and walked away.

As I made my way to the Russian portraits I couldn’t help wondering why I was here with Ethan. The thought nagged at me and got tangled up in my brain like a loose thread in a washing machine. Was this a date? Did I even want it to be? I was attracted to Ethan, of course, but that begged the question: what was I doing in the cloakroom with Jack?

I had to forget Jack. Ethan—this was the guy I should have been with. Even on paper he was perfect: Cute, charming, criminal.

I passed beneath a marble archway and entered a small room with burgundy walls and parquet floor and carved golden frames. I strolled to one end and stood before a large portrait of a man, a royal portrait it seemed, based on the uniform, the decoration, the imperial pose. I should admire the brushwork, I thought. Not that I knew anything about brushwork, but that shouldn’t stop me from admiring it, should it? I peered closer, gazing at the portrait’s face.

Every molecule inside me froze, instantly. My eyes darted down, panicking, to read the brass plaque on the frame.
Oh no.
No, no, no. This couldn’t be happening.

And just like that, I knew that I was going to have to do the exact thing I just promised AB&T, and Templeton, that I wouldn’t. The plaque read: C
ZAR
N
ICHOLAS
II: 1915. It was a portrait of the last monarch of the House of Romanov.

Who just so happened to be a dead ringer for Gorlovich, the owner of the Starlight Casino. I could see it in the slant of his eyes, the high forehead, the angle of his cheekbones. Gorlovich, the former possessor of the Aurora Egg, and recent victim of a major theft. I stared hard at the painting, desperate to see Sandor’s features in the face. But there was nothing. No resemblance whatsoever. Someone had pulled the bath plug, and I was being sucked down as everything I’d believed drained away. There was only one obvious explanation here: I’d been tricked.

The Gorlovich family were the rightful owners of the Aurora Egg. That was the only explanation that made sense.
They
were the Romanov descendants, not Sandor and his group. And the truth of what I’d just done? I hadn’t stolen the Egg back for the good guys. I’d just stolen it. Outright.

I quickly found Ethan. “I have to go,” I said abruptly. My teeth were gnashing at the thought of being used so brazenly. I savagely twisted the ring on my finger. One of my reasons for taking this job had been to correct an old wrong. But I hadn’t corrected a thing. In fact I’d made it all so much worse. I felt sick with betrayal. But before I started tearing the city apart, I needed to confirm this somehow.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, staring at me with concern. “You look angry ... or something....”

“I—I have to go sort something out. Right now. Sorry,” I said, and dashed from the gallery.

I flew home and immediately locked myself in my secret room. I flung open drawers and threw papers off shelves and finally found the envelope that my gloves had arrived in. The one that held the report on Gorlovich’s hair specimen that I’d tossed aside without reading. I gripped onto the report, and read it.

I crumpled the paper and slammed it onto my desk. God, I couldn’t believe it. I’d been completely and entirely duped. I dug my fingers into my hair and pulled at the roots.

Damn it.
The people I’d thought were the good guys were actually the bad. And here I thought I was doing something
honorable.
But in spite of all that, I ended up being the bad guy after all. In trying to fix the past I only managed to make it worse. I wiped at an angry tear and then stopped, frowning. Why was this affecting me so much?

And then I wondered—was this why I hadn’t felt any different after handing the Fabergé to Sandor? Because I hadn’t truly righted anything, in a universal sense?

I shook my head and tried to rattle the pieces back in place. Several questions pushed forward. For one thing, if not a Romanov, who the hell was Sandor? Who were all his people? Why go through such an elaborate ruse to steal a single piece?

The most important question, though, elbowed its way forward in my consciousness: what was I prepared to do about it?

 

Two hours later I was hiding in the darkness, deep within the labyrinth of rooms beneath the masquerade mansion. I’d tucked myself into an antique wardrobe that held old clothing and linens and I was trying to breathe through the odor of musty fabric and mothballs.

I’d had a vague, unformed plan to break in here and hunt for information. But within minutes of arriving in the old stone conference room I’d heard voices approaching from the corridor just outside. So I hid—flinging myself into the nearest place, which turned out to be this dusty old wardrobe—and held my breath, waiting to see who would appear in my sight lines. I was sweating with the desperate hope that I wouldn’t sneeze.

Of course I now had to admit that my friends had been right. I’d consulted them before coming here. And they, in the nicest possible way, had told me I was insane.

“So, explain this again, Cat, because I don’t get it,” Mel said. “Why do you need to return the Aurora Egg to the original family? You’ve stolen loads of things from original owners.”

We were at her apartment. After reading the DNA report, I’d gone directly to Mel’s place. Sophie had arrived shortly thereafter.

“I know. But I don’t like being deceived and tricked,” I said. “I was used.”

“So it’s an
ego
thing?”

“No . . . not exactly . . .” I said, searching for the right words. “It’s more like, what I did . . . is just not right. I thought I could fix an old wrong. Fix the past.”

“Cat, you can’t fix the past,” Mel said.

“Yes, you can. Sometimes you can.”

“Cat? No you can’t,” Mel said firmly. “You have to let the past go. You have to move forward. This is your life.” She sighed and her face softened then. She came and sat next to me on the sofa. “Learning from past mistakes is one thing, but a person can become consumed by it. An obsessive quest for atonement can only lead to one thing: self-destruction.”

There was silence. And then Sophie said, “We—we’re not talking about the Fabergé Egg anymore, are we?”

I looked away, out the window.

“It’s too dangerous, Cat. Just take care of yourself,” Mel said.

“And what about Templeton? You’ll be betraying him again,” Sophie said.

Everything they’d said was true. But this thing had grabbed on to me and refused to let go. So here I was, in the wardrobe.

I waited, slowing my breathing. Then, I heard the door open and shadows moved across my line of sight. Somebody began lighting wall sconces; I could smell burning candle wax and the sulfur of the matches. Despite the flickering light, I couldn’t see very well, so I opened the wardrobe door a crack further, heart pounding. I made out Sandor, and other faces I recognized from previous meetings: Hugo, Mikhail, Gilda. And then two other men came into view: the monks. They remained standing at the end of the table.

“Well? What do you want?” Sandor said to the monks. His voice sounded different. Sharper and pointed, like an ice pick. He even looked different to me then—harder, older, and more unpleasant. Was it my imagination, now I knew he was a liar?

“We know you have the Aurora Egg,” said the handsome, Latin-looking monk, his voice shaky and cutting off at the end in a nervous, involuntary stop. His temples, beaded with sweat, glistened in the candlelight. “We’re offering to purchase it from you.”

Sandor looked indifferent. “I’m listening,” he said.

“We’re prepared to offer you six point three million dollars.”

My eyes sprang wide. Sandor stared at the monks without reaction. “That is not an acceptable offer,” he said. The monks protested and blustered.

Sandor held up a hand to stop them. “You know, I find myself wondering something. Why would the church be so interested in a simple, albeit beautiful, piece of Russian decorative art?” He stood and began to walk the length of the table, growing slowly closer to the monks. The tall monk took a step backward. “Now, you’ve come to me before. And judging from your persistence, I would say the church is very interested. But I’m curious what it is, exactly, that has you so intrigued.”

Yes,
I thought.
That is a good question. Let’s hear the answer to that.
But the monks said nothing. The tall one had developed a bright, blotchy flush up his neck.

“Now. How stupid do you think
I
am?” Sandor said. His lips curled back into a nasty, toothy smile.

The monks blanched. “Listen, we know what you have planned with the Aurora,” the handsome one said, glancing at his partner. “And we’re here to beg you not to do it. It’s monstrous.”

Sandor folded his arms; he looked unmoved. The monks conferred, whispering urgently. “All right,” said the tall one. “We’re prepared to offer you double our first amount.”

I tried not to choke. Sandor looked bored. He sighed and then glanced—just the slightest flicker of a look—at Hugo on his left.

Two deafening gunshots rang out as Hugo shot both monks, point-blank, in the head. The monks crumpled to the ground and lay there, unmoving, in blooming pools of blood.

My vision narrowed to a tunnel and I could hear blood thundering in my ears. It took every ounce of self-control to not scream out. I tore my eyes away from the monks’ bodies and watched as Sandor and his group prepared to depart, briskly gathering papers. I was breathing so loudly I was sure they’d be able to hear me, hidden, so vulnerable in this wardrobe. An icy chill curled around my throat. I forced myself to focus on what was being said.

Sandor ordered his men to pack everything. “We’re leaving for London first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, sir,” one of the men replied.

“Has our prism landed in London yet?” Sandor asked.

“It appears so,” Gilda said, flipping through a file.

Sandor’s lips curled back. “I don’t want appearances. I want confirmation.”

They might as well have been speaking in Sanskrit—what were they talking about?
Prism?
It was all a blur. “Is someone going to clean this up?” Sandor demanded, waving a hand vaguely in the direction of the monks’ bodies. He exited the room.

Two large men bundled up the bodies in heavy plastic with frightening efficiency. The wall sconces were extinguished and the room emptied, leaving me alone again in the darkness, trembling. But there was something bigger than fear for me, now. And that was the knowledge that, more than ever, it was going to be impossible to let this go.

But one lucid thought pushed through: I was going to need some help.

The sky was painted the cold blue gray of dawn. Streetlights glowed their sodium vapor, not yet acknowledging the coming day. Jack parked his car in front of the masquerade mansion and climbed out. Sandor had agreed to the meeting, but he’d said it had to be early. He had a flight to catch.

I bet you do,
Jack thought. Jack knew Sandor had the Fabergé Egg now, and would be planning his next steps without delay.

The curved driveway glistened darkly—it had rained last night. The air was crisp and fresh from it. Dawn was a time of duels, Jack thought. Of foggy moors, first light, the smell of gunpowder.

What the hell was he doing here?

It had been his idea, of course, so he had no one to blame but himself. The day after his cloakroom incident with Cat—what a mistake that was—he’d gone to Wesley and Oliver Cole. He’d met them at the private room in the restaurant in Delridge neighborhood, the place of their first meeting. He told them that Cat had denied any involvement in the Fabergé theft. And that he believed her.

They’d listened. And then they’d promptly advised him that he was wrong.

“Cat Montgomery is the confirmed thief on this job,” Cole said, reclining in his smooth leather armchair. “Her agency superiors just disciplined her for the conflict of interest. We have corroborating information to back this up.”

Jack stood before them both, arms crossed. He silently cursed Cat for turning him into a fool. And then, the gnawing worry began again.

“So what next?” he asked.

“We’re going to contact Montgomery,” Cole said, drawing on his cigar. “We’re going to recruit her to help us go in and retrieve the Egg from the Caliga. She’s done it once, she can do it again. She’s got insider knowledge of how they operate, presumably.”

“No,” Jack blurted. “Not Cat. Keep her out of it.” She was in enough danger as it was, already having worked for Sandor. If she now became tangled in a double-cross operation? Cold fear touched Jack’s bones. He had an impulse to rush out and sweep her away somewhere safe.

“Impossible, Jack,” Cole said.

“Listen, I’ll do whatever you need.”

“Jack, you’re not a thief. The job is too difficult. Fact is, we probably should have involved Cat Montgomery right from the beginning. But we can learn from our mistake.”

Wesley leaned forward. “We know where the Fabergé is—more or less. It’s being kept somewhere in the underground caverns of the masquerade ball house. Until they can smuggle it out of the country, Sandor is not letting it out of his sight.”

Then Jack got an idea. “He will, if it’s to meet me.”

“What?” Wesley said.

Jack was thinking fast. “I’ll go and talk to Sandor myself. They won’t be able to resist my request for a meeting. They must know who my father was. So during that distraction, you”—he looked at Wesley—“can get the Egg.”

“Jack, that’s crazy,” Wesley protested. “You’ll be a sacrificial lamb.”

He shook his head. “They won’t hurt me, I’ll be fine.” Jack was not at all certain, but he didn’t have a lot of choice.

Cole, who had been silent, nodded his head. “I like the idea,” he said. “Let’s do it. But it can be Wesley and Cat who get the Egg while you’re doing the distracting.”

“No,” Jack said firmly. “No deal. I only do it if Cat is out.”

Cole sat back and rubbed his chin, mulling it over. “Okay. It’s a deal, Jack.”

Jack and Wesley left together. As they strode through Delridge’s shifty alleys and shadowy streets, Wesley said, “That was quite an act of chivalry, Barlow.”

Jack said nothing, but shrugged and shoved his hands in the pockets of his wool coat.

“Although I’m not surprised,” Wesley continued.

“If you have a point, you should get to it.”

“It’s just obvious, that’s all.”

Jack stopped and gave him a level look. “What are you talking about?” he said between clenched teeth.

“Jack, give me a break. You’re still in love with her. Cat.”

“Oh fuck off, Smith,” Jack spat. “That’s ridiculous. Cat and I could never be together again.” He turned and began striding away.

Wesley shrugged and fell in step beside him. “Maybe,” he said. “But I didn’t say you were going to
be together.
I just said you still love her.”

Jack stopped again and turned to look at Wesley, ready to tear another strip. He opened his mouth to say something, then hesitated.

This conversation was still bothering Jack as he climbed the steps to the masquerade mansion. But he had more critical things to deal with now.

Jack was quickly granted entrance to the house. He experienced flashbacks to the masquerade ball—the ice sculptures, the chamber music—as he was led by a butler to an enormous parlor. He was frisked for weapons and wires. Then, as he waited, he shifted back and forth. He tugged his collar to give a little breathing room. He knew that, in one minute, Wesley would be gaining access to the underground passages from the exterior hatch.

“Jack Barlow,” said Sandor, striding into the room. Jack had only seen photographs of the man. It was unnerving, the apparent age of Sandor. He looked barely old enough to be shaving. But Jack was wary enough not to be disarmed by this appearance.

Four other men slipped into the room behind Sandor, taking up positions by the door. They had no visible weapons. But Jack knew better.

Sandor shook Jack’s hand and they both sat down in velvet-upholstered armchairs. The room was sumptuously decorated with long swags of silk curtains and hand-woven rugs covering the marble floor. Jack imagined Wesley, now, slipping along the stone corridors below, homing in on the target.

“Well, Mr. Barlow, I must tell you I was surprised when I was advised that you wanted to meet with me,” Sandor said in a genteel voice.
So that’s how he was going to play it,
Jack thought. “Please don’t leave me in suspense any longer. What can I do for you?”

“I don’t want to waste my time or yours,” Jack said. “So I’ll just get right to it. I know you have the Aurora Egg. And you know that I know. But the fact is, I’m here because I want to join you.”

Sandor did not immediately respond. But his eyelids lowered a little, his expression turned fractionally more dangerous as he waited for Jack to continue.

“I want to be involved in what happens next with the Fabergé,” Jack said.

Sandor watched him carefully. He tapped his front teeth with a fingernail. “And what makes you think I’ll believe this little piece of fiction?”

Jack shrugged. “Quite simply, I like to be on the winning team.” Jack’s breathing was fast and shallow now and he forced himself to not move his eyes to the men standing by the door. His mind spun away to Wesley, down below. Was he encountering obstacles? Sandor’s core guards were here in this room, which he hoped meant the chambers below had been left minimally attended. “My father taught me a lot about the Gifts of the Magi,” Jack continued. “And it seems apparent to me that the Caliga are the ones to take it to the next step.”

Was Sandor buying it? Jack couldn’t be sure. He searched the man’s face for clues.

Jack continued speaking when Sandor said nothing. “I’m concerned, however, about your loose threads. People who know about this project but are walking around freely.” This was his riskiest statement. But he had to know what their plans were.

“Such as?”

“Cat Montgomery”

Sandor nodded. “Yes, our original plan had been to eliminate her—but I was ... interrupted.” Jack’s mouth went dry. But—at least Sandor was being candid with him. Sandor then shrugged. “There is no need for us to eliminate Cat Montgomery now, because she doesn’t know anything.”

Jack nodded. Sandor’s eyes narrowed. “Now, this line of conversation reminds me of something,” Sandor said. “Ah yes. Wasn’t Miss Montgomery a girlfriend of yours?”

Jack’s stomach tightened. “Yes. Emphasis on the was.”

“And this line of questioning isn’t meant to protect her in some way?”

“No, like I said, we’re no longer together. I’m with someone else now.”

Sandor’s face turned unpleasant. “Now here I know you’re lying. I know that you ended your relationship with the FBI agent.”

Jack struggled to conceal his surprise. How could Sandor know this? They had only broken up last night, at that damned restaurant opening. Jack had finally decided it had to end with Nicole, especially after that thing—whatever it was—with Cat in the cloakroom. But how could Sandor know about this? His sources were good. Frighteningly so.

Maybe this was a bad idea. Jack flicked a glance at his watch and wondered how much longer Wesley would be. How long could he keep this up?

At that moment an intruder alarm sounded, piercing the air with sirens. The parlor door flung open and a woman darted in. “Sir—someone is in the vault.” Two of the four henchmen immediately rushed from the room.

Sandor’s eyes sprang open. His head spun to face Jack. “How stupid do you think I am?” Sandor snarled.

Jack’s heart seized. He had to get out of there. Now.

 

The billiards hall cracked with the sound of a break shot; Ethan straightened from his position over the pool table, scrutinizing the results of his shot as billiard balls rolled and clicked across the green felt.

“Ethan, I need your help,” I said, standing beside him, shifting between my feet.

Ethan picked up his lowball drink from the edge of the table. The sleeves of his crisp button-down shirt were rolled up to the elbows. Ice cubes clicked as he took a sip. Then he smiled. “Well, I like the sound of that. What’s up, Montgomery?”

Before I could speak, he offered me his pool cue and indicated the table. “Want in? We could play for something interesting—”

I shook my head vigorously. “No, Ethan, I really don’t have time. This is important....”

I glanced around. The billiards hall was scantily inhabited this morning: a smattering of retired men in golf shirts, and a pair of university students in the corner, drinking beer, clearly recovering from the night before.

“Listen,” I said, “you know the job you helped me with, when we broke into York Security?”

“Of course,” he said, strolling to the other side of the table and lining up his next shot.

“Well, I think I need some help. Things are ... a lot more complicated than I thought. I thought I could handle this by myself. But I was wrong.”

He watched me carefully and rolled the pool cue between his hands. “Tell me, Montgomery. I’m all ears.”

Over the background sounds of clacking billiard balls and the occasional triumphant cheer from distant tables, I told Ethan all about the Fabergé job. I told him everything I knew about Sandor. And how I knew, now, that Sandor wasn’t actually a Romanov descendant.

“Ah, that’s what you were freaking out about in the art gallery,” he said, understanding dawning on his face.

I nodded. Then I told him what I’d seen in the masquerade mansion.

He froze, midshot, as I described the monks’ murder. He straightened, face darkening.

“Do you have any idea who these people might really be?” I asked him, nibbling a fingernail.

Ethan picked up his glass and slid onto a bar stool beside the pool table. He thought about it for a while. “I can’t be sure, obviously. But I know who this sounds like. Have you heard of a group called the Caliga Rapio?”

My eyes opened wide. “That’s real? I thought it was just an urban myth.”

“Most people would say people like
you
are an urban myth.”

“Good point,” I said, nodding. “So tell me. What’s the truth?”

“The Caliga are extremely secretive. But we know a few things.” Ethan began describing an international, underground circle of criminals. But the sort that operated without conscience, and without a code. According to rumor, they’d even lost the old skills, the art of burglary. What was worse, they were the kind who did not hesitate to kill people in their way.

Sandor’s face blazed in my mind, cold and detached, stepping around the dead bodies of the monks. I shivered.

“How long have they been around?” I asked.

“I don’t know. But from what I’ve heard, a long time.” Ethan stared into his drink, swirling the ice cubes. “You know what I think you should do?” he continued. I waited expectantly. “I think you should stay out of it. You were involved, and now you’re not. I say just drop it. Forget you ever knew about it.”

I nodded. It sounded like good advice. There was just one problem.

“I can’t do that,” I said. “The Aurora is clearly more than just another Fabergé Egg. There’s something special about it. I just don’t know what. They’ve obviously got unpleasant plans for it.” I paused and looked down, rotating the ring on my finger. “I took this job because I thought I was correcting something that had happened in the past. I thought I was returning a Fabergé Egg to its original family. But I was tricked, and used. Instead of feeling better now, I actually feel worse. I’m not sure I can live with that. And to be honest, Ethan, I don’t need any more regrets.”

 

Jack gave Sandor a swift, mighty kick in the chest, knocking the smaller man down. He hurled a chair—his only weapon—at the henchmen pulling their guns.

The chair flew through the air and both men scattered. One crashed into a glass coffee table, smashing it. Shards of glass flew everywhere. Jack grabbed a fractured table leg and sprinted for the door, smashing the knees of the henchman standing in his way. He had to get out of this house. As he ran, his hip slammed into a chair and his shoulder thudded into the door frame, but he kept going. He heard a bullet ping into the joinery around the door, splintering wood. Then the crash of more breaking glass as bullets plowed into a nearby mirror. Sandor was not a good shot.

Jack’s vision narrowed to a mine shaft. His heart beat at an uncountable rate. It would be sheer luck if he got out of here without being shot. His muscles strained as he sprinted through the hallway toward the front entrance. There were shouts and thundering footsteps right behind him.