by Ally Carter
“There’s no such thing as curses,” Kat tried to retort, but the taller girl was already crossing her arms and looking down in a way that made Kat feel especially small.
“Then how do you explain what happened when Uncle Nester went after it in ’79?”
“Lasers burn things, Gabrielle. It’s not the emerald’s fault Uncle Nester was sloppy with his fingers.”
“And what about the Garner Brothers in 1981?”
“Hey, anyone who thinks a non-military–grade rappelling cable can support the weight of two grown men and a miniature donkey deserves to fall off a cliff.”
“And that Japanese team in 2000?”
“You should always take a backup defibrillator if you’re gonna try the Sleeping Beauty. Everybody knows that. Besides, Uncle Eddie didn’t care when he went after it in ’67,” Kat tried.
Gabrielle’s glare turned icy. “He cares now.”
“What happened in ’67?” Hale asked, but neither girl seemed to hear nor care.
Gabrielle eased forward, silent and deadly as a snake. “The most important thing I know, Kitty Kat, is that Uncle Eddie—arguably the world’s greatest living thief—says that the Cleopatra Emerald is not to be stolen. I know that whatever happened in ’67 was enough to scare Uncle Eddie, so I believe him when he says that Cleopatra jobs end badly. Kat, they always end badly.” She dropped into her chair and crossed her long legs. “I don’t know what sob story Constance Miller gave you, or how a woman who supposedly hasn’t left her house in years managed to find you, or why—”
“Visily Romani,” Kat heard herself whisper, and she watched Gabrielle’s eyes go wide. “They knew the name Romani. They said Visily Romani sent them.”
It was easy to forget that there were some things with more history than Uncle Eddie’s kitchen table, but at the sound of the ancient name, Gabrielle’s hands went to the scarred wood, and two words filled Kat’s mind: Chelovek Pseudonima.
Alias Man, Uncle Eddie had translated for her once, and so Kat sat there thinking about the old names, the sacred names. Names used for hundreds of years, but only by the best thieves, and for only the most worthy causes. Kat trembled, knowing those causes now included the Cleopatra Emerald.
“He’s still out there,” Kat said. “This man who calls himself Romani—whoever he is—he’s still out there, and he sent me these people because I can help them. He thinks I can do this. I can—”
“Not you, Kat. We.” Hale dropped into a seat at the head of the table. He didn’t look at her. “If you do this, then we do this.”
“Of course. Yeah. We. But it’s not like it matters anyway,” Kat told them with a shake of her head. “The Cleopatra is supposed to be locked up somewhere in Switzerland. And even if we could find it…What? What are you staring at?”
Gabrielle looked at Hale, who shook his head, leaving Gabrielle to shuffle through the stack of mail that sat unopened on the end of the table.
“You’ve been gone, Kitty Kat.” Gabrielle slid the newspaper across the table, the headline blaring out for all to see that the Kelly Corporation was finally going to bring its most prized possession home.
Home.
New York.
Kat felt her heart beat faster as she looked first at Gabrielle and then at Hale.
“So…what?” Hale asked slowly. “I guess now we steal an emerald?”
There was a room at the top of the stairs that had white eyelet curtains and two twin beds with matching quilts. There was a small dresser, a wicker hamper, and a bookshelf full of dusty, fraying Nancy Drews. That room had never belonged with the rest of the house, Kat had always thought. Stepping inside was like walking into another world—one with a pink rotary telephone and a music box. A tiny alcove in a man’s world, a place made entirely for girls.
Someone, sometime had embroidered the name Nadia on a pillow, and Kat held it in her arms as she lay, staring up at the ceiling but not sleeping. She felt too small, lying on her mother’s bed, still trying to fit inside her footsteps.
“So, Hale…”
Kat turned and saw Gabrielle silhouetted in the door, watched her walk to the other bed and lie down atop a pillow with the willowy script that spelled the name Irina.
“What about him?”
“What’s going on with you two?”
“Nothing,” Kat said, a little too quickly.
“Yeah, and why is that exactly? I thought you two were getting all relationshipy. But now you’re gone half of the time and he’s…angry.”
“No, he’s not.”
“Yes, he is.” Gabrielle gave a short laugh. “He doesn’t like you going off, doing these jobs on your own.” Kat drew a breath to protest, but not before her cousin lowered her voice and added, “And he’s not the only one.”
Kat honestly didn’t know what to say, so she turned onto her side and closed her eyes. She didn’t even know that Gabrielle had crossed the room until she felt her cousin’s weight plop down on the mattress beside her. “So why are you doing it?”
“I…” Kat stumbled, looking for the words in the dark. “They’re easy jobs, Gabrielle.”
“Maybe in the beginning, but Rio wasn’t easy.”
“How do you know about Rio?”
“Everyone knows about Rio. Everyone would have helped.”
Kat’s throat was suddenly too dry. “I didn’t need any help.”
“And what about Moscow?” her cousin went on. “Maybe you didn’t need help, but whenever you start going up against the KGB, you should probably get some—just in case. So the question is…why didn’t you?” Gabrielle rested her elbows on her knees and tapped her chin, thinking.
“Gabrielle, I’m—”
“Drunk!” Gabrielle exclaimed, bolting upright with the realization.
“I’ve never been drunk in my life,” Kat shot back, but her cousin only laughed.
“Oh, you’re heist-drunk, Kitty Kat. And you have been since the Henley.”
Kat tried to push herself up and out of the bed, but Gabrielle was perched atop the covers, pinning her in.
“Tell me you didn’t feel a rush when we carried those paintings out of the museum’s front door.…Tell me there wasn’t a high when you swiped a Cézanne under the noses of half the KGB.…No wonder you aren’t taking Hale with you.” She shook her head. “Sometimes boys are far easier to deal with when they’re on the other side of the world.”
“Hale and I aren’t…” But Kat trailed off, completely unsure how that sentence was supposed to end. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Gabrielle,” she started again, but her cousin shook her head.
“Yeah. I do,” Gabrielle said, insulted. “Our world is built on adrenaline and getting away with it. Different cities, different names. It’s a far simpler life to lead when there’s no one around to tell you when you’re being stupid. Believe me, dear cousin”—Gabrielle stood and stretched—“I know better than anyone.”
Kat had often wondered what really went on inside Gabrielle’s totally beautiful head. More than met the eye, she was certain.
“Look, Gabrielle. These are my jobs—my call. There’s nothing in it for anyone—no paycheck—so there’s no sense asking anyone else to take the risk. I’m not on some kind of bender here.”
“Sure,” Gabrielle said, nodding slowly. “And six months ago, you went off to the Colgan School and swore you were never going to steal again.” She crossed the room in two long strides. “You’re off the wagon, Kitty Kat. And the least you can do is admit it.”
Kat rolled over and stared at the ceiling again. It seemed to take forever to say, “Hale…how mad is he?”
Gabrielle crawled into bed and looked at her cousin across the shadowy space. “For a genius thief, you really are a stupid girl, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.” Kat closed her eyes. “I am.”
CHAPTER 6
“My name is Ezra Jones.”
Kat took her time studying the face that stared back at her from the other side o
f the dusty sitting room that she could never remember anyone actually sitting in. The man had white bushy eyebrows and dark brown eyes, and the smile that peeked out from behind the perfectly trimmed goatee was devious at best.
“I’m going to need to see some ID,” she told him.
“Of course,” he said with a laugh. He stepped forward and handed her a business card that read Chamberlain & King Insurance and Underwriters, London, England. When he added, “Here you go, my dear,” and flashed a British passport, the picture was off, Kat thought. The accent, however, was spot on.
“So how do I look?” the man asked.
“Old,” Gabrielle said, leaning closer as she applied theatrical makeup to the corners of his mouth. “But not old enough. And blotchy.”
“But you sound good to me,” Kat told him.
Only then did Hale smile. “I’m going to remember you said that.”
“Sure thing, Ezra. Just tell me this: the real Mr. Jones is…”
“Ecstatic.” He looked again at the man’s wallet. “It seems someone from Hale Industries met him at the airport this morning and offered him his dream job in the Cayman Islands. In fact, he called London from the Hale Industries jet and quit his old job just a half hour ago.”
“Shame his company’s not gonna get the message,” Gabrielle added.
“It is,” Hale said with a solemn nod.
“And that he lost his wallet…” Kat went on.
Hale raised one false eyebrow. “A tragedy indeed.” When he slid the small leather case into the inside pocket of his suit jacket, the two girls watched him. Kat had pulled aside the heavy drapes, and light streamed into the room, bouncing off of faded dusty furniture, a cold fireplace, and a perfectly forged Rembrandt that had hung above the mantel for longer than Kat had been alive.
“Kat, what are we going to do about his shoulders?” Gabrielle tried to pull his arms down, but nothing about him seemed to move. “And that gut,” she said, patting him on the stomach.
“Hey, I’ve never had any complaints in that area before,” Hale said smugly.
“Exactly,” Gabrielle cried. “Would it kill you to eat a muffin every now and then?”
Kat was biting her nails, walking around Hale, staring him slowly up and down.
“His hands are off,” Gabrielle pointed out.
“Posture’s wrong,” Kat said.
“He’s still…hot,” Gabrielle said, as if it were the greatest insult in the world.
“I feel so objectified. So…cheap,” Hale told them, but the girls talked on.
“This would work from a distance, but in close quarters and under high scrutiny…” Kat let the thought trail off.
“Couldn’t you have found someone younger?” Gabrielle said.
“It was a miracle I found him.” Hale pointed to the documents on the table.
“We either need a young guy for you to impersonate or an old guy to do the impersonating!” Gabrielle threw her hands into the air. “We need—”
“No,” Kat said before the words could even come out. “Uncle Eddie is not a part of this.”
Gabrielle crossed her arms. “But he is the ultimate old guy.”
“Maybe we should call him, Kat,” Hale said. “I mean, where are we going to find a suitable old guy in twenty-four hours?”
“Excuse me, miss?”
Kat turned toward the soft voice and had to shake her head. For a second, she could have sworn she was seeing double. She looked between the photo of Ezra Jones that lay on the table and the way Marcus stood in the door. They had the same eyes, the same coloring, and the same look of people who have been orbiting around great wealth and power—always on the perimeter, always close enough to serve—for a lifetime.
Marcus drew a deep breath. “Your dinner is ready.”
CHAPTER 7
The Cleopatra Emerald was not cursed—everyone at the Oliver Kelly Corporation for Auctions and Antiquities said so.
After all, an emerald—no matter how large—did not cause the ship carrying Oliver Kelly the First to sink in shallow waters off the coast of Nova Scotia. And once the stone was set in platinum and given to a railroad heiress from Buenos Aires, there was no way any necklace—no matter how heavy—could force a woman to lose her head in a very tragic steam engine incident.
Of course, it was impossible to deny that the next owner went bankrupt. The small country that added the stone to its crown jewels was invaded. And the museum that displayed the Cleopatra for a short time was burned almost entirely to the ground.
But it wasn’t cursed.
Everybody at the Kelly Corporation said so.
“It’s not cursed, Mr. Jones.”
“Of course not.” Hale gave a deep throaty laugh and slapped Marcus on the back. Marcus, as per their agreement, said nothing. “But, Mr. Kelly, as the Cleopatra’s insurer of record, Mr. Jones is of the opinion that the stone would be best left exactly where it is.”
“Excuse me.” Kelly cut him off. “Who are you, exactly?”
“Well, as I said on the phone, Mr. Kelly, I’m Colin Knightsbury. I’m Mr. Jones’s personal assistant.”
Kelly seemed to consider this before turning and saying, “Fine.”
Hale was not short, lazy, or unathletic, and yet it felt somehow like a struggle to keep up, as they followed Oliver Kelly the Third down the polished halls and gleaming corridors. It didn’t look like the sort of place that had its roots in shady places and black market deals, but if there was one thing every W. W. Hale learned early on, it’s that you never really want to know where the money comes from.
“And as I said on the phone, we at Chamberlain and King believe that moving the Cleopatra on this schedule could be quite dangerous. If you could delay—”
Kelly came to an abrupt stop and wheeled on the pair. “I’m sure you would like me to delay, but seeing that it’s my stone, I think I’ll do with it as I please.”
“Before his death,” Hale started, “your father was adamant that the stone not be displayed in public, and—”
“My father inherited this company,” Kelly snapped, gesturing to the people and things that filled the hall. “And do you know what he did with it?” he asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. “Nothing, Mr. Jones. He maintained what my grandfather had built—that’s all. I don’t expect you to understand what it’s like to be in a family business, but the job of future generations is not to maintain. The one major decision my father made was to buy the Cleopatra back thirty years ago, and then he locked it up goodness knows where—”
“Switzerland,” Hale said.
“What?”
“According to our records, the stone is in a high-security box in a Swiss bank.”
“I know that,” Kelly snapped, and pushed the elevator call button. “The point is that no one has seen it. I have never even seen it. It’s the greatest asset this company has, and all it’s done in thirty years is collect dust and wait for some mythical mate to turn up so that some ridiculous curse can be broken.”
“Of course, of course,” Hale said.
Kelly looked at him as if to say, I was talking to your boss.
That was when Hale slid closer. “You’ll have to forgive Mr. Jones, Mr. Kelly,” he confided softly as Marcus stood three steps behind them, stoic, silent as the grave. “He can see the smallest crack in a company’s defenses, the slightest fault. I’m here to make sure Mr. Jones isn’t distracted. The man’s a genius, you see. And when Mr. Jones says that it might be best to wait—”
There was a ding, and the elevator doors were sliding open.
“My grandfather was a genius,” Kelly snapped. “A visionary.”
Hale stepped inside the elevator, secretly wishing the man would have the nerve to add “a thief.”
“That stone is the Kelly Corporation’s signature piece,” Kelly continued, “and it’s not going to stay in a hole in the ground. Not on my watch.”
The doors slid closed, and Hale couldn’t help but study the
reflection of Oliver Kelly the Third—the handmade suit and full-Windsor knot. Antique cuff links and Italian calfskin shoes, all of which had one purpose: to make sure no one ever mistook him for ordinary. All at the age of twenty-nine. Hale might not have hated him so much had it not been like looking in a fun-house mirror—at who he might have become if he hadn’t been home two years before on the night when Kat came to steal his Monet.
“Yes, Mr. Kelly,” Hale said slowly, still taking the image in. “I understand completely.”
“Good.” When the elevator doors opened, Kelly turned and extended a hand toward Marcus. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Jones. I appreciate your time. But as you can see, our paperwork is in order, and our security”—he gestured at the showroom on the main level of the building, its gleaming cases and cameras and guards—“it is the best it can possibly be, so I’m afraid you’ve made the trip for nothing.”
“Indeed.” Hale reached to take the hand that was offered, held it a little longer than Kelly was perhaps expecting, squeezed it a little tighter. “What do you think, Mr. Jones?”
Marcus let his gaze sweep around the room. His voice was stoic and cold when he said, “I think the last time I heard that was at the Henley.”
Hale watched Oliver Kelly the Third shudder at the words. The color faded in his cheeks, and his mouth drew into a thin hard line. “The Henley?”
“Oh yes,” Hale said. “They assured us that no one could ever steal Angel Returning to Heaven from their walls, and we believed them. But we were all wrong on that account, weren’t we, Mr. Kelly?”
Honesty was a rare thing in Oliver Kelly’s business. People negotiated. Dealers lied. He wasn’t exactly sure what to do when faced with someone so willing to admit a mistake, so he didn’t do anything—he just stood, waiting.
“And, of course, they thought their paperwork was in order too, and now…” Hale trailed off, then risked a glance at Oliver Kelly the Third. “Well, I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to comment, but let’s just say they’re still waiting for a check. And with a piece like the Cleopatra Emerald—with its cultural and monetary significance—”