Uncommon Criminals

by Ally Carter

  “He’s eccentric,” Kat tried.

  “Bizarre.”

  “He’s got something of an artist’s temperament.”

  “I say a screw loose.”

  “He’s a little…unpredictable.”

  But this time, there was no teasing as Gabrielle corrected, “No, Kat. The word is banished.”

  Kat felt the truth wash over them, silent and chilly as the snow. Then she shook her head. “So he and Uncle Eddie don’t get along. That has nothing to do with his work. His work is good.”

  “I know, but if Uncle Eddie doesn’t want anyone to use him—”

  “Well, Uncle Eddie also says no one should steal the Cleopatra Emerald. Don’t worry, Gabrielle. Not even Uncle Eddie can kill us twice,” Kat said, turning back to the frosty glass.

  “Oh, if anyone can…” Hale twisted and stared down the steep cliff again.

  “Besides,” Kat said as the SUV slowed, “we’re here.”

  Marcus guided the car from the twisting road into a clearing where the dense pines gave way to an even smaller lane, a low stone fence, and a tiny cabin with smoke spiraling into the sky. Icicles hung from the roof, and the whole thing might easily have been made out of gingerbread.

  “Yeah,” Hale said, staring out the window. “He’s got to be a criminal mastermind, all right.”

  Outside the SUV, the snow was up to Kat’s knees, and she had to hold Hale’s arm to steady herself as they waded their way through the deep drifts to the small shaded stoop.

  “Hale,” Kat said slowly, “one more thing you might want to know about Charlie.…”

  Gabrielle was ahead of them, her long legs skirting over the drifts like the wind.

  “Yeah?” Hale said.

  “He’s Eddie’s brother.…”

  “Okay.”

  “And…”

  Looking up at Hale, Kat had to think that the sky was so clear, so blue, so close. Hale was close. He felt with her, and she honestly didn’t know whether or not that scared her—what she should or should not say. For a moment, there didn’t seem to be anything to say at all.

  But just as quickly, that moment was over, because the door was swinging open, a gruff voice was saying, “Who’s there?” and the three of them were turning, staring at the familiar face of Uncle Eddie.

  “Kat?” She heard the worry in Hale’s voice and knew he was already formulating cover stories and concocting lies.

  “It’s okay, Hale. He’s—”

  “Hello, Uncle Charlie.” Gabrielle pushed her sunglasses onto the top of her head, and the wind blew through her long hair. She was beautiful—Kat could see it. And yet one of the best artists in the world seemed to barely notice. He was too busy staring past her, squinting against the glare of the sun that bounced off the snow—a blinding white.

  “Nadia.” His voice cracked and his lips quivered, but his gaze stayed locked on Kat. The best hands in the business were shaking as they pointed toward her.

  “No, Charlie. This is Nadia’s daughter, Kat. Remember?” Gabrielle whispered. “Nadia’s gone, Charlie.”

  “Of course she is,” the man snapped, and straightened and pulled back from the door. “Come inside if you’re coming.”

  Kat and Hale stood alone in the sun, watching the old man disappear into the shadow of the house, and that was when Hale mumbled, “Uncle Eddie’s got a twin.…There are two Uncle Eddies.”

  “No.” Kat shook her head. “There aren’t.”

  * * *

  False walls and fake IDs, frames with forged paintings, necklaces with imitation gems. Kat was well aware that most things in her world were a little bit unreal, but it had never seemed so obvious until she stood on the threshold of the tiny cottage at the top of the world. She thought of Mr. Stein’s house in Warsaw, entire rooms dedicated to the search for treasures that were gone, hidden, lost—perhaps never to be seen again. But Uncle Charlie’s house…Charlie’s house was the opposite in almost every way.

  Three Mona Lisas hung beside the doorway. The mantel over the fireplace held at least a dozen Fabergé eggs. There was a basket of bearer bonds by the fire with the rest of the kindling, a set of hand towels in the bathroom that, had they not been made from terry cloth, would have been, collectively, an exact replica of Leonardo’s Last Supper.

  It was the oddest sort of museum that any of them had ever seen, so they turned slowly, taking the whole sight in.

  “Forgive the mess,” Charlie said, pushing aside a pile of canvases to clear a place on a faded wingback chair. “Haven’t had company in a few days.”

  Or years, Kat thought, remembering the long snowy drive. She stood quietly, watching Hale’s gaze sweep over the room, waiting for his eventual, “Um…Charlie?”

  The old man jumped a little at the sound of his own name, but still managed to mutter, “What?”

  “Is that a real Michelangelo?” Hale pointed to a sculpture that sat in the corner, covered with hats and scarves and dust.

  “Of course it is.” Charlie patted the sculpture on the back. “Nadia helped me steal it.”

  Gabrielle and Hale seemed almost afraid to look at Kat then, as if the mention of her mother’s name might be too much for her. Only Charlie seemed immune to the silence.

  “Now that’s one of mine.” He pointed to the Rembrandt on the wall, dusty and old and perfectly identical to the one that had hung above Uncle Eddie’s fireplace all of Kat’s life. The original didn’t matter. Not to Kat. Not when there were two perfect forgeries hanging a few thousand miles apart, like a portal linking two totally different worlds. When Kat looked at Charlie’s painting, she tried to see how it might differ from its twin, but the differences were not a matter of canvas or paint. The differences, Kat knew, were in the paintings’ lives.

  “You look just like your mother.”

  Kat jerked, her uncle’s voice pulling her back into the room and the moment. She felt her eyes begin to water and knew she wasn’t the only one seeing double.

  “Yeah.” Kat wiped her eyes and hoped no one noticed. “I guess I do.”

  When Kat moved toward him, she thought that he might bolt and run, but instead he caught her arm and held her there. His hands were covered with varnish and stain—an artist’s hands. Unburned and unscarred. And yet he just squeezed harder, tighter than a vise. There was something real about the master forger when he stared into her eyes and said, “Does he know you’re here?”

  Kat shook her head. “No.”

  When he released Kat’s arm and dropped into a chair, Gabrielle grabbed a footstool and pulled it closer. “Uncle Charlie,” she started, “we have a job—a big one.”

  “You have a job?” he asked, then laughed, quick and hard. “Where’s your mother?” he chided.

  “She’s busy,” Gabrielle told him. “And we’ve pulled plenty of jobs on our own.”

  “I don’t suppose you heard about the Henley?” Hale said, but his smooth smile broke when faced with Charlie’s glare.

  “Beginner’s luck,” the old man countered.

  “We can do this, Uncle Charlie.” For the first time in her life, Gabrielle sounded like someone who genuinely needed someone else’s approval. “We’ve got a plan.”

  “You’re children,” the old man hissed.

  “Like Nadia was a child?” Gabrielle said. “And my mother. And—”

  “Don’t touch that,” Charlie snapped, and Hale inched away from the Ming vase that held an assortment of ratty old umbrellas.

  “We came a long way to see you, Charlie,” Gabrielle said.

  The old man cut his eyes at her. “The ride is always easier on the way down.”

  “We wouldn’t have come if there was anything in this world you couldn’t make,” Gabrielle said, not flirting; not lying. It was in no way a con when she told him, “We wouldn’t be here if we didn’t need the best.”

  “I am the best.” It was the sure and steady voice of someone who knows that it’s true. And yet, Kat couldn’t help but notice that he
rocked slightly at the waist. The artist’s hands trembled. “I’m retired,” he said, looking away. “And your uncle doesn’t want you here.”

  “You’re our uncle too,” Gabrielle protested just as Kat eased onto the stool and caught her uncle’s eyes.

  “Someone is using one of the Pseudonimas, Uncle Charlie,” she said, and watched him turn as pale as the snow. “Have you heard that?”

  “It’s not me,” he snapped.

  “I know.” Kat reached for his hand, but he flinched and pulled away. “I know,” she said again, softer this time. “But I need your help, you see.”

  “We,” Hale inserted.

  “We need to do a job for Visily Romani.” Kat took a deep breath. “We need the Cleopatra Emerald.”

  And in a flash they were there—the steely resolve and power of will that Kat had seen so often on the face of Uncle Eddie. “No!” the man snapped, rising from the chair and pushing across the room with so much force Kat almost lost her balance.

  She struggled to her feet, but the man didn’t stop, didn’t turn as Kat went on.

  “The Kelly Corporation is moving the emerald to its corporate headquarters in New York two days from now, and we have to steal it, Uncle Charlie. Visily Romani needs us to steal it.”

  “No one has to steal the Cleopatra Emerald. Eddie knows that. We know that. We know…We learned that lesson the hard way.” He turned to Gabrielle. “You should go.”

  “Charlie, please.” Despite her smaller than average size, Kat crossed the room in three long strides.

  “I can’t make that in…It can’t be…I’d need…”

  “I’ll get you whatever you need,” Hale said.

  “It cannot be done!” The old man yelled so loudly that Kat half feared an avalanche. “I can’t make that. I can’t make it. I can’t…”

  “We don’t need you to make us a fake Cleopatra Emerald, Uncle Charlie.” Kat’s voice was low and kind and even. When she touched his arm, he didn’t pull away. “We just need you to give us the one you’ve already got.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Somewhere between the airport and the brownstone, the others must have fallen asleep. Kat watched Gabrielle curl into a tiny ball like a kitten while Hale splayed across the limo’s backseat, long legs and arms, and a head that, on occasion, would drift onto Kat’s shoulder in a way she couldn’t bring herself to mind.

  Kat knew that she should be resting, but her eyes stayed open, watching the darkness fade. Thinking. Planning. Worrying about all the ways it could end badly. The switch could get blown or the gear could jam. The roof access might be compromised and the blueprints could be out of date. There were always a million ways a job could go wrong, but only one way for it to go right.

  There were always too many chances.

  When the car stopped, the street was quiet in that space that wasn’t quite night and wasn’t quite morning, and the girl who wasn’t quite a thief thought for a minute about staying there, telling Marcus to cut the engine and let everyone just sleep. But then Hale shifted beside her.

  “We home?” Kat felt his breath against her neck, warm and soft. It was as if, half awake, he’d forgotten to be angry about Moscow and Rio and all the others. She missed the boy who was curled against her. “Did you sleep?”

  “Sure.”

  “Liar,” Gabrielle said, straightening and stretching. “You’re thinking about the roof, aren’t you?”

  “Among other things,” Kat had to admit.

  “The switch?” Hale asked.

  “The cameras?” Gabrielle guessed, but Kat sat perfectly still, unsure whether she was hearing the spinning of the wheels in her head or the idling car. It seemed to take all the strength she could summon to reach for the door and step out into the dusky light.

  “The timing.” She felt the green stone in her pocket, smooth and fragile. “The timing…is everything.”

  Turning from the car, Kat expected to see the empty street and the vacant brownstone, to find peace and quiet and anything but the sound of a gruff voice saying, “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

  Kat would never know how many faces and names her uncle had worn in his long life. Eddie himself probably had no idea. There was only one Eddie that mattered, though, and that was the man who turned and left the stoop, walking through the dim house. That was the man the three teens followed into the heat of the kitchen.

  “You’ll sit,” he told Kat. “You’ll eat.”

  It was the first time in a long time that Kat could remember a decision being made for her, and she couldn’t help herself—she did exactly as she was told. And she liked it.

  He struck a match and lit the flame on the old stove, then pulled a dozen eggs from the refrigerator. It was part habit, part ritual, and the hands that had run a thousand cons moved with steady, even purpose.

  “You have been to Europe.”

  It wasn’t a question, and Kat knew better than to deny it. Hale and Gabrielle shared a worried glance behind her uncle’s back, but Kat just sat, feeling the weight of Charlie’s stone in her pocket, pressing against her hip.

  “And how is your Mr. Stein?”

  The first thought that came to Kat’s mind was relief: He doesn’t know. The second, she had to admit, was irritation. “He’s not my Mr. Stein.”

  “I see headlines about statues in Brazil.…” Uncle Eddie talked on as if she hadn’t spoken at all. “I hear whispers that a Cézanne has gone missing in Moscow.…”

  Hale held up two fingers. “Just a little one.”

  “And I think maybe the South American operation can survive a few days without me. I think maybe I am needed at home.”

  Eddie found his cast-iron skillet but didn’t turn, didn’t speak, until the silence was too much for Kat, and she blurted, “They were easy jobs.”

  Uncle Eddie looked at Hale, who shrugged and said, “I wouldn’t know.” He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “Wasn’t invited.”

  Kat felt an odd thing in the air then, with Uncle Eddie looking at Hale. “She goes alone?” her uncle asked.

  “She’s slippery that way,” Hale said, and suddenly Kat hated them for whatever alliance they had formed in her absence.

  “She is standing right here!” Kat snapped. “The last I checked, she has managed everything she’s tried so far.”

  “Talent, Katarina, is a dangerous thing.” Uncle Eddie turned back to his stove, placed bacon onto cast iron, and when he spoke again, it was in Russian, low and under his breath.

  “What was that?” Hale asked.

  “‘The man who loves the wire needs the net,’” Gabrielle translated, then read Hale’s blank expression. “It means—”

  “Leave us,” Eddie told Hale and Gabrielle.

  “But…” Gabrielle pointed to the skillet and the bacon and the eggs.

  “Now,” Eddie snapped, and a second later Kat was alone at the kitchen table.

  There was no doubt the room was different. Uncle Eddie might have been back at his stove, but his absence was every-where—from the calendar that hadn’t been changed, to the suitcase by the door. But the only thing that really mattered to Kat was the newspaper that lay on top of all the others, the same headline still screaming in the room, calling out for all to see that the Cleopatra was on the move.

  “We are very much alike, Katarina.”

  It should have been a compliment, the highest praise. Kat could think of at least a dozen people who had been working for those very words their whole lives, but not Kat. Kat knew there was far more to the story.

  “I was once a brilliant young thief…who wasn’t nearly as brilliant as I thought.” He took a deep breath. “It is a shame to see history repeat itself.”

  “Excuse me?” Kat rose to her full height and then regretted it. It felt like far too little, far too late.

  “It seems as if you don’t approve of the family business, Katarina.” He shrugged. “Or of me. But these chances you take…these things you do…this
is a dangerous life to live…alone.”

  Kat couldn’t help herself; she thought about Rio and Moscow and the look in Gabrielle’s eyes when she’d warned that a person can get drunk on this life—on these highs—and when that happens, Kat knew, there was bound to be a long, long way to fall.

  But Kat was smart and careful, and there was not a doubt in her mind when she stepped toward him, threw her arms out wide, and said, “Look at where I am, Uncle Eddie. I’m back. I’m here. And I’m not alone.”

  “Yes.” There was something sad in the word. “You’re here. When it suits you.”

  “Do you not like how I’m stealing? Or do you not like why?”

  “Listen to me, Katarina—”

  “What kind of thief do you want me to be, Uncle Eddie? What should I steal—whatever it is in Uruguay?”

  “Paraguay,” her uncle corrected.

  The newspaper lay on the table, staring at Kat—calling to her like a dare. “Oh, hey.” She reached for it. “I see the Cleopatra Emerald is coming to town. Maybe I’ll make a play for that.”

  Kat had no idea why she’d said it, but the words were already out there—too late to take them back. Maybe she wanted her uncle to forbid it. Maybe she expected him to laugh—as if the idea were far too absurd. But instead he reached for the paper and tossed it among the eggshells and coffee grounds with the rest of the trash.

  “We do not joke of such a thing.”

  “I know,” Kat said, but Uncle Eddie was already turning.

  “The Cleopatra Emerald is no plaything!”

  “I know,” she said, trying to make him understand, but it was too late.

  “You’re a smart girl, Katarina—too smart to take stupid chances. Better thieves than you have gone after that blasted stone, and they have paid.” He stopped, and Kat could have sworn she saw his hand shake. His lips were a thin hard line when he whispered, “Great thieves have paid dearly.”

  Kat’s voice was different when she said, “I know.”

  “We do not steal the Cleopatra, Katarina. It is…” Eddie trailed off, struggling for words.

  “Cursed,” Kat offered.