by Ally Carter
“It’s not cursed,” Kelly said automatically.
“Of course not. But if you don’t mind”—Hale placed his hands behind his back, smiled warmly—“Mr. Jones would like to start with the basement.”
“And the cameras on this level?” Hale asked twenty minutes later.
“The same as the level before,” the director of security said from his place at Mr. Kelly’s right side.
Kelly watched as Hale took copious notes. He snapped hundreds of pictures.
“And these windows?” Hale asked. “They’re monitored by…?”
“Glass break detectors at fifteen yard intervals.”
“Bulletproof?”
“Of course.” The security director sounded almost offended.
“Excellent.” Hale took yet another picture, then consulted his clipboard one more time. “Then I believe all that remains is the vault. The model number on that again is…”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Jones,” Kelly said, “but I distinctly remember providing that information in our quarterly report.”
“Yes,” Hale stepped in to answer. “And last quarter, the Cleopatra Emerald was scheduled to stay safely on the other side of the world, so forgive us if we visit the subject again.” He turned to the security director. “The model on this door sensor…”
“Helix 857J,” the man said with no emotion.
“I assure you, gentlemen,” Mr. Kelly interrupted again. “We at the Kelly Corporation know exactly how valuable our emerald is, and we have taken every precaution to protect—”
“Your emerald?” Hale tilted his head. “Does everyone agree about that?”
The man flushed. “Well, of course. Who else could…”
Hale turned to Kelly, stared straight into his eyes, and said, “Tell me about Constance Miller.”
“The subject of Ms. Miller is a matter for our legal depart-ment—not security. I can assure you that the Cleopatra’s so-called history has no bearing on her safety.”
“Yes.” Hale smiled. “We heard that from the Henley too.”
“Listen here, Mr.…”
“Knightsbury,” Hale provided, but Kelly talked on.
“Constance Miller is a recluse. She’s old.”
“Does she have friends?” Hale asked.
“Friends who could help her steal an emerald ?” Kelly laughed as if it were the funniest thing he’d heard in ages. “I think not.”
“Family?”
“Yes. A grandson, I think.”
“Does she have a claim, sir?”
Kelly scoffed. “Not a legitimate one. The best courts in two countries have said so for a dozen years.”
“Twelve years is a long time to want something, Mr. Kelly.”
“Yes, but—”
“A very long time to hear no.”
But no was not a word that Oliver Kelly the Third had ever heard. To hear it for a dozen years seemed more than the young man could understand.
Kelly dropped his voice and finished, “Perhaps I should have my secretary put together a file.”
“Yes.” Hale smiled. “Perhaps you should.”
“Excuse me, miss. May I help you?”
Kat didn’t turn at the question. Two feet away, there was a case full of rubies and diamonds—a pendant rumored to have belonged to Catherine the Great and a pair of earrings featured in a movie starring Audrey Hepburn. But those things didn’t really matter to Kat. Kat was far more concerned about the one case that was empty.
“What goes in here?” she asked the salesman.
“Oh, I’m afraid that space is reserved for a very special—Don’t do that,” the man said when Kat propped one hand on the case (and fingered the hydraulic base and titanium stand with the other).
“But what is it?” Kat chomped her gum. “I might want to buy it, you know. I’ve got a birthday coming up, and my dad said I could pick out anything I want. Maybe I want what goes in here.”
She tapped the glass (and surmised that it was drill-proof and at least an inch thick).
“I’m afraid it isn’t for sale.”
Kat rolled her eyes (and noted the positions of the surveillance cameras on the north wall). “Then what’s it doing in a store if it’s not for sale?”
“We are an auction house, young lady, and this is an exhibition piece that will be displayed until—Please don’t do that,” the man said, grabbing Kat’s hand just as she reached beneath the case’s edge, fingering the pressure-sensitive lip of the pedestal.
“Excuse me,” Kat said when she bumped into a man who was browsing among the cases (and felt the telltale shoulder holster of a plainclothes guard).
“Miss,” the salesman went on, “perhaps you would be more interested in our collection of—”
“So you’re just going to show it off?” Kat scanned the gleaming showroom floor (and noticed the state-of-the-art motion sensors at the pedestal’s base).
“Yes, we are—”
“That doesn’t seem very fair,” Kat huffed. She took one last look around the room, at the guards and the cameras, the exits and the case, and then turned to leave.
“Miss,” the salesman called, “I am sure there are many other things that will work with your price range.” He swept his arm around the showroom floor.
“That’s okay.” In the corner of the room, an antique clock began to chime. “I think I’ve got everything I need.”
“You’re late.”
Kat felt her cousin fall into step beside her, but didn’t turn to look. She was probably the only person on the street that day not staring at the slender girl in the short trench coat and tall black boots, but that didn’t really matter.
Gabrielle pointed to the Kelly catalog in Kat’s hands. “So can we do it?”
Kat took a deep breath and shoved the thin book into her pocket. “Right now, I’m more worried about whether or not we should do it.” She eyed her cousin. “You got the key?”
Gabrielle rolled her eyes and flashed a small magnetic card from a hotel near Times Square. “Of course I got the key.”
They could have picked the lock, rappelled down from the roof—maybe swiped a couple of maid uniforms and a housekeeping cart for good measure—but Kat and Gabrielle were smart enough to know that the shortest distance between two points was always a straight line. Or a picked pocket, as the case may be.
So they made their way into the hotel lobby and elevator without any fanfare or unnecessary risk. They were just two girls on their own in the big city—all the way to the small, modest room on the alley side of the seventh floor.
“So how was your day, Gabrielle?” Kat asked.
“Do you have any idea how hard it is to tail an eightyyear-old woman? It’s hard. Really hard. Really…slow.” Then Gabrielle raised a fist and knocked. “Housekeeping?” she called while Kat stood just out of view. “Housekeeping!” she tried again. After a long quiet beat, she used the key, and together the cousins stepped inside.
For all the hotel rooms that Kat had seen in her short life, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been in one like that. It consisted of nothing more than two full beds, a clean small bath, a bureau, and one closet with hangers permanently attached to the rod.
“Well, they travel like they’re almost out of money,” Gabrielle said, moving through the room so quickly and softly that Kat doubted her feet even made an impression in the carpet.
“How much time do we have?” Kat asked.
“They just went in with their lawyer, so let’s call it forty minutes.”
“Let’s call it thirty,” Kat countered, and Gabrielle shrugged—the universal signal for Have it your way.
It didn’t really matter. They could have done what they needed to do in ten. There was only the bedroom and bathroom, after all. The closet held two suitcases that had probably been quite expensive fifty years before but were now faded and beaten; three pairs of shoes and an assortment clothes that were worn but neatly mended—all with London labels.
Kat watched her cousin flip through page after page—black-and-white images of a family in the desert; photocopies of ancient ledgers written in a woman’s elegant hand. And countless letters from Oliver Kelly the Third, urging Constance Miller to “move on,” “give up,” and finally, “get a real hobby.”
“Oh,” Gabrielle said slowly, “I really don’t like this guy.”
But it was the last page that made them stop—because it was the last page where someone had taped a plain white business card with simple black letters that spelled the name Visily Romani.
CHAPTER 8
An hour later, Kat was alone in the middle of Madison Square Park, watching the fat white flakes that floated between the gray sky and the Kelly building—a nagging voice in the back of her mind telling her that something was about to go terribly wrong.
Maybe it was the location: high-security buildings are hard. High-security high-rises are suicide. Perhaps it was because the Kelly Corporation’s cameras were state-of-the-art, and their security consultants used to cash paychecks from places like the CIA.
It was not because of curses. It was not because of Hale. It was certainly not because Visily Romani—no matter how noble his motives—was developing an annoying habit of pulling Kat into jobs that far older and experienced (and some might even say sane) thieves would never dare attempt.
No—Kat shook her head against the thought, blinked away the snow that landed on her dark lashes—that wasn’t it.
“If I didn’t know any better,” a strong voice said from behind her, “I’d say you were casing that joint.”
Hale was there. Kat turned to see Gabrielle punch his arm and say, “Told you we’d find her here.”
But there was nothing playful in the way Hale was looking at her as he said, “I should probably warn you that Oliver Kelly isn’t messing around.”
And that was when Kat knew there was no single part of this job that worried her—it was everything together. From the building, to the target, to the way Hale crossed his arms and studied her through the falling snow. But most of all, there was…
“Romani.” Kat looked up at the gray sky. “They had Romani’s card.” She stood waiting for an answer of some kind, but got nothing. “So it’s legit. So I think I’ve got to do this.” She studied Hale through the falling snow. “So…say something.”
“That place is a fortress, Kat.”
“Romani wouldn’t have sent Constance Miller to me if he didn’t think I could—”
“We,” Hale snapped.
“Of course. If he didn’t think we could do it.”
“I don’t like it, Kat,” Hale said, and just that quickly, Kat knew he was right.
“I don’t like it either, but I think…I think I’ve got to try. You don’t have to come with me if you—”
“No.” Hale shook his head. “No way. If you’re in, I’m in.”
Together, the two of them turned to Gabrielle, who plopped onto a park bench and crossed her legs. “So what do we know?” She stared at the building in the distance as if trying to move it through the sheer power of her mind. It might have worked, too, if Hale hadn’t stepped in front of her.
“The stone arrives Thursday from Switzerland via private charter. It will go immediately to the tenth floor, where it will be polished, verified, and appraised.”
“How long?” Kat asked.
Hale shrugged. “If they’re not distracted, I’d say three hours. Maybe less.”
Gabrielle looked at Kat. “Didn’t the Wobbley Brothers do Humpty Dumpty once in three hours?”
“Maybe less,” Hale said again, even louder.
“And it’s cursed,” Gabrielle chimed in. “What?” she asked when Kat gave her a look. “I’m just saying we should never underestimate curses.”
“What about transit?” Kat asked, ignoring her.
Hale shook his head. “They’ve got three different armored car companies with three different routes, and that morning they’ll flip a coin to see which one gets the job. Plus, once it’s in transit, there’s…you know…an armored truck. And guards. With guns.”
“The Bagshaws blew up an armored truck once,” Gabrielle offered.
“And guards.” Hale’s voice rose even more. “What’s the first floor like?” he asked, but Kat was already shaking her head.
“It’s as good as you’d think it would be—maybe better. Four guards. Two uniforms at the front door, one at the staff entrance, and a plainclothes that probably rotates, depending on the day.”
“Cameras?” Hale asked.
“Lots.”
“Blind spots?” Gabrielle said.
“None.” Across the street, the lights were fading to black, and Kat saw the employees slipping from the door on the side of the building, disappearing among the commuters and workers and shoppers of midtown Manhattan.
“Night’s no good,” Kat said to their unasked question. “Even if we could get past the guards and security, the emerald’s case sinks into a reinforced titanium vault beneath the floor at closing time.”
“Basement access?” Hale asked, perking up.
“No.” Kat shook her head. “With that kind of case, there won’t be any access of any kind.”
“How do you know?”
“Tokyo,” Kat and Gabrielle said at the same time.
Gabrielle shrugged when Hale looked at her. “If you don’t believe us, Uncle Felix has got the blowtorch scars to prove it.”
Kat’s gaze was lost in the distance, her voice low, and when she spoke, it was almost to herself, saying, “The stone is small, and small means easy to hide.” Hale and Gabrielle stayed quiet, letting her talk, mind working, gears turning. “But no one’s seen it in years, and if no one’s seen it, then everyone’s going to be staring, and staring people tend to…see. But staring also means focused, and focused people get scared, and scared people get distracted.…”
“So we’re back to Humpty Dumpty,” Gabrielle tried, but Hale was already shaking his head.
“No,” he said. “I’m telling you, even if we can get the king’s horses in there, there’s no way we make it out before someone notices the emerald is gone. And trust me, we do not want to be caught on the inside.” He cringed. “Ex-Navy SEALs. Big ones.”
When Kat spoke, it was more a hypothetical question than a challenge: “What if they don’t notice?”
“No, Kat. No.” Despite the snow, sweat was beading at Hale’s brow. “I’m telling you, if we had a month and a big crew…maybe. But Kelly is not messing around with this thing. We don’t have the time or the resources to—”
“What are you thinking?” Gabrielle asked, cutting him off.
“Kat!” Hale snapped, probably louder than he’d intended, because when he spoke again, the words were softer. Sadder. “Kat, Uncle Eddie couldn’t steal it.”
There it was—the single fact that was scarier than the guards, more worrisome than the cameras. It was the one thing that, no matter what, Kat knew she could never plan a way around. What they were talking about doing was forbidden; it went against her family and its rules, and so Kat didn’t dare look at that job through Uncle Eddie’s eyes. Instead, she looked at it like Visily Romani.
“The authentication room,” Kat said, almost to herself. “We can do an Alice in Wonderland in the authentication room.”
They stayed perfectly still in the wet air, the plan taking shape around them like puzzle pieces formed out of the falling snow. The three of them stood shaking from the cold and with the knowledge that maybe—just maybe—it might work. And may
be, Kat knew, it wouldn’t.
Gabrielle stared into her cousin’s eyes. “Whatever you do, Kat, just do not say we’re gonna need a forger.”
“No, Gabrielle. We’re going to need someone who can fake the Cleopatra Emerald in seventy-two hours.” Kat started walking. Her short hair blew across her face as she turned her head and called against the wind, “We’re going to need the forger.”
CHAPTER 9
“Do I know him?” Hale asked. Together, the cousins said, “No.” Kat and Gabrielle sat together in the backseat of the huge SUV that Hale had paid for and Marcus drove. They swayed as the big tires lunged in and out of the deep gouges in the rough road. No, Kat realized. On second thought, road was far from the appropriate word.
Path.
Trail.
Death trap?
The dense canopy of trees parted, and for a brief second, nothing but snow and sky stood between them and the sheer cliff with its steep drop. Gabrielle—one of the best high-wire workers to ever grace the family business—leaned close to the glass and peered into the white abyss.
Hale, on the other hand, looked as if he might be sick all over the SUV’s soft leather interior. “So are we sure this guy will be there?”
Kat looked at the pristine snow that lay before them, eighteen inches deep and completely untouched by man. “He’s home,” she said, certain that no one had been up—or down—that mountain in a very long time.
Marcus drove steadily faster. The tires spun, and the SUV skidded; but still they kept their forward progress, climbing.
“And how do we know he’ll be able to help us?” Hale asked, his voice an octave higher than Kat had ever heard it.
“Oh, he can help us.” Maybe it was the change in Gabrielle’s voice—the sudden inflection—or maybe Hale was just desperate to look anywhere but over the sharp cliff that Marcus was currently navigating, because he spun around and stared into the backseat.
“What does that mean?” Hale asked.
“It means…well…” Kat started, then stumbled, searching. “You see, by some standards he might be a little…”
“Weird.” Gabrielle shrugged against her cousin’s glare. “The man is ten pounds of kooky in a five-pound sack.”