A Beautiful Heist

by Kim Foster

  I felt a tug on the rope. I looked up. Seven feet up, Sandor’s face appeared over the banister’s edge. A dark bruise had blossomed on his jaw. And that cold fury he had before? Replaced now with good old-fashioned hot fury. His teeth were bared like an animal’s and his eyes were wide, crazed.

  “You’re not going anywhere with that Fabergé,” he growled.

  He gripped the rope and vigorously launched himself over the ledge as I dangled, helplessly. He descended hand over hand and he was upon me in a second. He slammed into me and clutched at the sack where the Egg was tucked.

  “Sandor, stop!” I gasped. “You’re going to kill us all.”

  “You stupid bitch. You have no idea what you’re doing. You have no right.” He was pulling, dragging, clawing. “I lost everything in this search. I’m not going to lose the prize.”

  I felt the sack loosen as Sandor grappled at it. I twisted away. But he was in a better position, just above me. One more grab and he’d probably be able to wrench it away from me. I couldn’t get Sandor off me. I couldn’t do it alone. But Ethan was still unconscious.

  “Brooke!” I screamed, looking down in a dizzy panic. “Help!” But she didn’t respond.

  Sandor groped at my harness, trying to unhook it. I’d tied my harness last, hastily, and the connections were poor. I could feel it shredding. I kicked at him, trying to push him away, but I couldn’t get good leverage, and he was like a man possessed.

  Suddenly I could tell the harness was not going to hold me. Ethan’s weight was dragging me down. I twisted and scrabbled at the glass panes and the iron numbers of the clock face, desperate for a foothold. My foot smashed through one of the panes. I could feel myself losing my grip. My mind raced to the rappel anchors—they couldn’t possibly support the weight of three.

  Oh God. I’m not going to make it here. A crushing, hopeless darkness pushed through the panic.

  “It’s mine,” hissed Sandor.

  He had a firm grip on the straps of my bag at last. He loosened the opening and reached inside. I felt a lightening, but I twisted away and Sandor’s hand wobbled. The Egg rolled out of my bag and rested, miraculously, cradled between the hands of the great clock. Time momentarily stopped as we stared at it, unbelieving.

  We both reached for it but it was just beyond our fingertips. Sandor stretched, pushing me back. He almost had it. It was all I could do to hang on for life.

  I glimpsed his face. He was consumed, crazed. His drive for the Gifts had turned him psychotic. And now, I had glimpsed his reasons. He’d been dogged by it his whole life. And that thing he’d said in the Clock Tower—had his father died in the search? Was it Sandor’s fault?

  “Sander—you can’t reach it. It’s too far.” My mind raced; maybe I could talk him down.

  “No. It’s mine,” he snarled. “I have to get it. I cannot live unless I—”

  Sandor reached and stretched, and I watched with horror as his fingertips brushed the Egg. He was trying to swing us closer, but it wasn’t enough. He planted his feet on the clock’s arm and used it to push, holding on to the rope with a single hand. He reached out impossibly far, and—

  He lost his grip on the rope. In slow motion I saw his face turn back, too late. There was air between his hand and the rope, and nothing but air beneath him.

  All the oxygen left my lungs as I watched him fall, screaming. I lost sight of him before he hit the ground, swallowed up by the night air and the heavy fog. I turned away, cringing.

  When I opened my eyes, I saw the Egg, glistening, balancing, teetering just a little. The Egg was about to fall down from the full height of the Clock Tower to smash on the ground beneath.

  I couldn’t let that happen.

  I focused on the Egg and reached for it. I strained as far as I could, holding the rope with one hand. I could feel the pull on my harness. It wouldn’t hold much longer, the straps were loosening. But I almost had it. If I could just reach a little further. I could touch the surface of the Egg now, but I needed to grab it, to cradle it in.

  “Catherine, let it go,” came a steady voice on my far side. I turned and saw Brooke. She must have roused from her trance, perhaps when Sandor fell, and climbed back up beside me.

  But I couldn’t let the Fabergé go. I reached with my hand and caught sight of Penny’s ring. This Egg was everything right now. I’d sacrificed so much for this chance to put things right.

  But if you don’t let it go, it’s going to be your death, said a voice in my head. Just like it was for Sandor.

  Frustration made me want to rip my skin off in shreds. I’d come so far. I was so close. But it was down to this: I had to choose, here, between saving the Fabergé, and life.

  I couldn’t fix the past but I could live, right now. Suddenly I saw that the Egg was just a thing. It couldn’t truly change the past. It was not salvation, not redemption or penitence. It was time for me to stop looking for symbols of forgiveness. I needed to forgive myself. And live.

  I pulled my hand away. The Egg wobbled a little. Then it teetered, and rolled off the clock hand, falling into the mist.

  Bleak failure punched my stomach. The Fabergé was gone. The Gifts of the Magi were destroyed, smashed upon the streets of London. All that remorse, all those generations of people trying to correct the original mistake made by two thieves so long ago—it was all gone and shattered on the ground.

  I had failed.

  And yet . . . in the back corner of my mind, just out of sight, there was a lightness of being. Because alongside the Fabergé something else lay destroyed on the ground. It was my own personal burden: the guilt I’d been carrying for years about Penny.

  Brooke’s hand was on my arm. “Cat. We need to move.”

  I looked into her eyes. I snapped back to the present predicament. We needed to get out of there.

  “There’s no way we can go down now,” she said. “A crowd will be gathering—a man just fell to his death.”

  We needed a new plan. Trouble was, every palace exit would be blocked now, whether by Sandor’s people or by the police. We were trapped. And we couldn’t waste time climbing back up to the belfry.

  Brooke lowered down, just below the clock face, and kicked through a window. At the sound of breaking glass, Ethan roused a little, shifting slightly and mumbling incoherently. Brooke pushed the glass shards away, clearing a hole, then helped me and Ethan through, grasping firmly to my arms and sides. We stood up inside and got our bearings. We were in the clock repair room, just behind the face. How were we going to get out of there? I recalled the schematics of the building in my mental image-finder. A plan began to formulate.

  “Brooke, can you help me carry Ethan? We’re going to have to run.” She sized him up and nodded. She was able to put a little weight on her leg, enough to get us out of here. “Okay. Follow me,” I said.

  Brooke grunted as we lifted Ethan into a two-person carry. We hobbled down a spiral staircase and then stumbled through corridors as fast as we could, heading south. We bolted through darkened libraries and dressing rooms, pushing on. Intruder alarms rang and clanged and wailed as we raced through but we ignored it all. The city lights filtered in through endless rows of windows, flashing like strobe lights as we raced past. I was operating on pure adrenaline now, in that space between exhaustion and nervous breakdown.

  Along the way, Ethan slowly regained consciousness. We carried him a little further as he struggled to come to. At this point, however, Brooke was limping badly. Her leg wound had started bleeding again. We put Ethan down and the three of us toiled onward.

  At last we reached a vast room at the very end of the south wing: an office of some sort, with a single desk, two club chairs, and massive oil paintings on the walls. Tall windows overlooked the foggy Thames. On this far corner of Westminster there was no terrace below. It was just a straight drop, seven stories down, into the river.

  “We’re going out that way,” I said, clawing for breath.

  “What way?” Brooke said.<
br />
  I pointed to the river. “There.”

  Ethan nodded, and immediately began looking around for places to attach the rappel anchors.

  I shook my head vigorously. “No time for rapelling,” I said. They stared at me with bewilderment. “We just have to go.”

  “Do you mean . . . jump?” Brooke said.

  “Yes.”

  She stared down at the Thames far below. The fog was thinner now. We could make out what was below: dark, choppy, charcoal water.

  Ethan raked his hand through his hair and exhaled. He knew as well as I did this was our only viable option. He glanced down at Brooke’s leg; she was unable to put any weight on it at this point. Ethan, on the other hand, was beginning to rally. He was unable to use his left arm but was otherwise functional. “Okay. I’ll take Brooke,” he said. “We’ll meet at Blackfriars Bridge. But not right away. We’ll separate, then rendezvous in two hours. I know where to go, to get these injuries seen to.”

  We worked quickly to wrench the window open. Then, without belaboring the task, Ethan went over the window ledge foot first, carrying Brooke down with him. They dropped down, Ethan silently slicing through the night sky like Batman. It was a long drop down. I watched the icy water splash as they submerged. I held my breath. After several seconds two heads bobbed to the surface. I closed my eyes and exhaled. They made it.

  But now it was my turn. My head swam and my stomach flip-flopped.

  And then, there was a great clattering of boot steps and the door smashed open and a swarm of armed men burst into the room. Whether they were security guards or Sandor’s people I didn’t know, but it didn’t matter at this point. I spun and saw firearms pointed directly at me. “Stop right there!”

  My trepidation about jumping vanished and I lunged for the window, leaping into the open night air. I was sailing, flying, then falling....

  Chapter 40

  The pavement over Blackfriars Bridge glistened beneath street lanterns, slick with moisture. The mist was clearing now. I stood at the old carved railing and stared at lantern reflections in the slow-moving water of the Thames. Everything felt black and white and silver, like some kind of 1930s noir film.

  “Are you going to be okay?” Ethan asked me.

  I nodded soberly. “Actually, yeah. For the first time, I really think I am.”

  I had hidden for a long time—huddled along the bank of the Thames—after jumping from Westminster. When it was safe I’d clambered out and gone to Charing Cross train station, where I had stashed a change of clothes.

  My muscles were starting the slow burn that came from a long night of strenuous activity. Brooke was quiet, standing beside me on the bridge.

  I looked at her. “You okay?”

  “Never better.” She winced a little as she readjusted herself on her crutches. After climbing out of the river, Ethan had taken Brooke to the back door of a very exclusive, very private clinic. It had been a place he’d used on a job in London years ago. An exceptionally capable—and discreet—physician treated both of their gunshot wounds, and confirmed that Ethan’s head injury was not as serious as it seemed.

  “You know, Ethan, someday you’re going to have to tell me how you got those combat skills of yours,” I said teasingly.

  “Someday, Montgomery,” he said, shrugging. He grinned. “So anyway, what are you going to do now?”

  I thought about this for a moment, gazing at the trees lining the south bank. Hundreds of tiny blue lights illuminated their branches. “Probably stay low for a little while. Then head back to Seattle.”

  “To continue working for the Agency?”

  I nodded. “With a little luck, everything will be fine with AB&T” It seemed to be the only thing that hadn’t become totally screwed up, against the odds. I would slip back into my life in Seattle.

  I saw a flicker of approval in his eyes. “That’s my girl,” he said. Had he wondered if I would give it all up? That was the last thing I would consider now.

  A warm glow of calm suffused my being. Because I knew who I was now. And, more importantly, I knew why I was this way. I had always thought my drive to be a thief came from trying to correct the wrong I’d done Penny, long ago. But that was not what it was.

  In that moment when I thought I’d atoned for Penny, in the Westminster vault, I realized I didn’t want to give up my life as a thief. This was who I was. And that’s because—right or wrong—being a thief was my own way of being special, of living a life less ordinary. And it was the one thing I could do in the world at which I could be ... the best. So how could I walk away from that?

  No. This was what I was meant to do.

  A small shadowy doubt tiptoed into the edge of my brain. But—did that mean I’d always be driven to be a thief? Until it killed me?

  I pushed that shadow down. That was something I’d have to deal with at another time.

  I glanced at Ethan again, taking in his injuries, his battered self. His wounds were my fault. But they were sustained because he came here to help me. No personal gain involved. “You know,” I said to him, “you’re not as much of a villain as you make yourself out to be.” He looked surprised, then grunted noncommittally. “There’s a hero inside you, Ethan Jones. You just have to let him out.”

  He looked at me earnestly for a moment. Then his face took on a wicked expression and he moved closer. “Maybe if I had a good influence in my life—someone who was always rushing around trying to do the right thing—that person might rub off on me. Hmm?”

  My stomach fluttered and my pulse sped up. “Well, I don’t know . . . but it might be worth a try....”

  I bit my lip as Ethan moved even closer.

  Brooke cleared her throat. “Um. Do you two mind continuing this conversation elsewhere? The police have combed the water once already, but they’re probably going to return. Also, being a third wheel is not familiar territory for me and I am quite disinterested in trying it out—”

  Ethan and I stepped apart and laughed, awkwardly, at that. But she was right. We did need to make ourselves disappear again. I pulled my coat tightly around myself and turned.

  And then, everything changed.

  Three figures appeared in silhouette walking along the bridge, toward us. Three men in trench coats, striding purposefully. Panic seized my brain and I looked for a clear path of escape. In that moment, though, I recognized Templeton’s face among the men.

  He was flanked by two other men: the Chairman of AB&T and a thin, wiry man I didn’t recognize.

  The floor dropped out beneath me. And just like that, my one constant was gone. I stood, staring, saying nothing. What could I say? They were obviously there because they knew what I had attempted to do.

  Templeton looked at us grimly. “Catherine,” he said, nodding at me. “Jones. Brooke,” he said, addressing them in turn. He carried a black umbrella. His eyebrows were low and his mouth was a hard line.

  “Templeton ... I can explain—”

  “Cat,” he said, interrupting my stammering. “Stop. It’s over.”

  I closed my eyes. How did they find out? My gaze was drawn slowly, inexorably, to Brooke.

  She stared back. “Don’t look at me, Cat,” she said flatly. “It wasn’t me.”

  Templeton nodded. “This time, it wasn’t.”

  “But then—”

  “Catherine Montgomery,” the Chairman interrupted, addressing me directly in the manner of a sentence hearing. He was a short, round man with a fleshy face. “You directly disobeyed an order from AB&T. You disregarded our rules. You have compromised our entire corporation.”

  I nodded, slowly. My chest constricted. This couldn’t be happening. I was about to hear my dishonorable dismissal. No more glorious climb to success, no Elite status, no international assignments. This was the end of my career with AB&T. Quite possibly the end of my career as a jewel thief.

  No. Just at the moment I finally understood that being a thief was my one true thing. I tasted bitter irony on my tongue.


  I stared into the river, at the bridge lights reflecting in the water. A double-decker bus lumbered over the bridge, swishing along the wet pavement. I waited for the guillotine.

  And then I heard the Chairman say, “However . . .” I raised my eyes. “There’s something you need to know.”

  I glanced at Templeton. Under the surface of his grim expression I saw a flicker of something else. His eyes darted to the Chairman and then back at me. Like he was eager to see my reaction to what was going to come next. What was it? My pulse rocketed.

  “It’s something not many of us, within the Agency, are aware of. Only a small faction. Even Templeton didn’t know about it until tonight.”

  I couldn’t speak. What was he going to say? The Chairman looked at the wiry man I didn’t recognize. “Wesley, why don’t you take it from here?”

  The man called Wesley spoke. “Cat, you’re aware that AB&T has a very long history. Yes?” He smiled, and I noticed he had an awful lot of teeth. But there was something trustworthy about his demeanor.

  “Yes.”

  “In fact it stretches many centuries back. And when we formed, our charter included a very specific quest.” He paused, rubbing the back of his neck. “You know the legends mention two groups descended from the original thieves, right? One wanted to regain the Gifts for malevolent purposes—”

  “The Caliga Rapio.”

  “Right,” he said, nodding. “Well, Cat, the other group—that’s us.”

  I blinked. And then it clicked. Of course.

  “So all along,” I said, thinking it through, “when I thought I was working behind your backs, I was actually working for you? The Agency is the other side?”

  “Well, truthfully, we’re just a part of it. A hundred generations later, it’s a very big network. We do know that the tradition has given rise to some of the great thieves of history.”

  I had a mental image of all the legendary thieves throughout time. Robin Hood, Bonnie and Clyde . . . was I, too, part of that pedigree?

  I looked at Wesley. “So that’s the whole reason AB&T exists—to find the Gifts?”