“A little over halfway done,” Walter grunted; I heard metal clank together as he hoisted another load to the roof. Twenty million in gold, on the top of a truck, zipping along a Swiss road.
“You’ll miss the first pass over the Rhône, but you might be able to make the second,” Otter said, sounding somewhat frenzied.
“No,” I said, “No—Walter, Kennedy, lock the safe back up and get out. We’ve got most of it, but you’re slowing, and the second river pass is only four minutes out. It’s not worth the risk.”
“Are you sure, Hale?” Kennedy asked.
“Positive. Move,” I said, and to my relief, no one questioned me. A good spy sticks to the mission, but a good mission director knows the reality of the situation. SRS would still have ten million, sure, but we’d have twice that, and SRS wouldn’t know until the vault reached its final destination, and they opened it up . . .
“Wait! Instead of turning the voice lock back on, reset it. Use Kennedy’s voice,” I said, nearly shouting into the comm.
“Clever,” Clatterbuck said, smirking. SRS would get to keep their ten million, but they’d have quite a time getting through a biometric lock programmed to Kennedy’s voice. As Kennedy and Walter scrambled to the roof, Clatterbuck sped up a little so that we’d be close by when Walter and Kennedy had to jump back over. I saw the road curve ahead, and the bridge. This crossing was larger, so Kennedy and Walter would have more time, but it was still a big task . . .
“River approaching,” Walter said. “Three hundred feet . . . two hundred . . . one hundred . . .”
“Go!” I shouted.
Walter and Kennedy frantically began to shove the gold bars off the roof—and into the river below. They went one pile at a time, Walter shoving and Kennedy kicking piles over with her feet. A few bars clanked against the guardrails before dropping into the water, but they still made it. Ten million in, fifteen million in, sixteen million, the other side of the bridge and the little village beyond was approaching—
“That’s all of them!” Kennedy shouted happily. Ben and I high-fived, and I heard Beatrix celebrating back at the farmhouse. Clatterbuck, however, was even-keeled, getting up closer and closer to the truck. I saw the passenger—it was Mrs. Quaddlebaum—glance at us in her side mirror, but luckily it was too dark for her to notice anything. At least, I hoped it was. Kennedy and Walter walked to the edge of the truck and waited for us to draw closer. I saw Kennedy put her feet in Walter’s hands, prep, then soar through the space. She landed squarely on the roof of the horse trailer and then rolled off into the truck bed. Walter was next; he backed up, prepared to run—
The SRS truck hit its brakes.
Not hard, but given that Walter was balancing on the rooftop, hard enough. He lost his balance, fell, and rolled down the roof of the truck, but he grabbed ahold of the edge just in time. Clatterbuck had no time to react; he sailed by the SRS truck, and from the floorboards I got a glimpse of Teresa Quaddlebaum glaring into our window, watching our every move, assessing whether the strange horse trailer following them was a threat.
“Keep going, keep going,” I hissed at Clatterbuck.
“But, Walter,” he said through gritted teeth.
“I’m okay!” Walter panted over the comm. “Go, go, or she’ll know something’s up!”
Clatterbuck listened, continuing on past the truck without hesitation. We all tensed, waiting to see how SRS would react, because if we were caught, we’d almost certainly know in the next few seconds—if they pulled over to check the gold or the back door locks.
They didn’t. They continued along.
“I’m back on the roof,” Walter said as we came up on the village. “What should I do, Hale?” I could hear him unraveling—as per usual, Walter didn’t react well to a change in plans. We were in a populated part of town—if it were daylight, he’d be able to jump down at a red light, perhaps. As it was the middle of the night, the lights were all green as far as the eye could see.
“Turn here!” I shouted to Clatterbuck.
“But that’s a one-way road!” he protested.
“I know!” I argued. Clatterbuck flinched but managed to wheel the horse trailer to the left, between two old brownstone-type buildings. We scratched a few cars parked along its edge, but there was nothing to be done about that—we were in something of a rush. I signaled for Clatterbuck to slow down.
“What are you doing? Where’d you go?” Walter asked shakily.
“We turned down a one-way street—it should signal the traffic lights to change, if they’re controlled by a sensor, which they have to be, or there wouldn’t be straight greens all down the—yes!” I shouted as the light on the main road flicked to yellow. The SRS truck would have to stop. Clatterbuck turned our truck off so we were hidden by darkness. Behind us, we watched SRS roll to a stop, wait for the light cycle, and then drive on.
Leaving Walter, who looked like he was about three seconds from fainting, at the light.
Ben and Clatterbuck sprinted from the car to retrieve him, whooping in celebration. Kennedy, who’d been flat in the truck bed for most of this, rose up, grinning crazily, her hair a red nightmare from the wind. She watched as Ben and Clatterbuck guided Walter back, causing more than a few irritated apartment dwellers to peer through their curtains at the source of all the yelling.
“We did it?” Kennedy asked, bounding through the back window of the cab like she’d just drunk nineteen sodas. She knew the answer, of course, but she wanted to hear me say it.
I exhaled and pulled the comm out of my ear to give myself a second without the soft static buzz. I smiled—mission control was, in some ways, way more exhausting than actually being in the field. “Well. Once we pull it out of the Rhône, we’ll have SRS’s gold. And if we’ve done everything perfectly, they won’t have a clue what we’ve done until after day two.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Day Two
Mission: Everything but the gold (because we already have it—haha, SRS)
In theory, everyone got an hour of sleep between day one and day two of Operation Vengeance for Annabelle. In reality, I think only Annabelle herself slept. I know Walter, Ben, and I tossed around before finally giving up and heading back to the kitchen, where Beatrix was already reading her equipment. She had the earliest call time—at eight forty-five in the morning. She and Otter had to be at the helicopter tour pad.
“Need any help?” I asked her.
“Nope,” Beatrix said cheerily. “What about you guys? Want me to double-check the comms before I leave?”
“Nah, they’ll be fine,” I assured her.
“Take some pictures for me?” Clatterbuck said glumly as he made his way down the hall. He walked up to the espresso machine and prodded at it for a second, and then he grabbed a juice out of the fridge instead. Beatrix promised to take photos, but Clatterbuck still looked a little sad that, while Otter and Beatrix went on the helicopter ride he’d wanted, he, Walter, Ben, and Kennedy would be hiring a boat to retrieve the twenty million in gold we’d dumped into the Rhône.
Unless, of course, SRS realized the gold was missing. In theory, they wouldn’t—after all, the back door to the truck hadn’t been opened, and the vault was armed. They’d have to be inspecting the roof of the truck to notice anything was amiss, and I suspected the chances were better that they’d merely parked the truck in a facility overnight, with the idea that they’d bring it all back to the bank after they caught us mid-heist.
If we were wrong, I was about to be in a lot of trouble though—because I was the only member of the team who’d actually be in the bank. I’d have a comm on to communicate with the others, of course, but no one was running mission control. It was just me this time.
It felt both supercool and superterrifying. I hadn’t felt so anxious since I broke into The League headquarters earlier in the summer, looking for my parents, back before I realized who the real good guys were.
Beatrix and Otter left, and after a quick hug, K
ennedy bounded off with everyone else, leaving me to take the bus to the bank, which felt extremely un-spylike but gave me some time to settle. To focus. To relax.
Tense spies make mistakes. And at this point, there was no room for mistakes.
I exited the bus and walked across the street, and then I started on the steps to the bank. If I’d gotten my timing right, Hastings should’ve been arriving at any moment.
There. He was on his way up the steps, wearing a designer suit that had grown too tight on him. He looked clammy, and he fidgeted. He looked tense. I gradually made my way toward him so that we wound up at the top of the steps together.
“Mr. Hastings,” I said politely as we pushed into the same cubby of the bank’s massive revolving door.
“Mr. . . . uh . . . Hale,” Hastings said. He looked gleeful, and it was hard to not reach up and smack the grin off his face. In his mind, I was about to get captured by SRS, and he seemed positively thrilled about it. Or, I supposed, positively thrilled about the payday my capture would result in. “Where’s everyone else?” he asked.
“They’re in place—no, don’t look! SRS could have someone here. You never can be too careful,” I said, making my eyes big and wary.
“Ah, right. Well. I suppose I’ll see you at the loading dock, then?” he whispered as we entered the lobby.
“One o’clock,” I said, and winked for good measure. Hastings scurried away while I headed toward the main counter. I smiled at the banker there. “I’d like to open a safe deposit box, please,” I said in smooth French.
The banker swept me through the process and, after I handed over a fake check, passed me the key to a safe deposit box. I nodded and made my way down to the room, passing through two security officers on the way, each of whom needed to see my key to let me through. The safe deposit vault was, like the rest of the bank, beautiful and ornate. The boxes themselves were copper-gold colored, and the ceiling was painted pale burgundy. There were cameras, one in each corner, and I knew SRS was tapping into them. I wandered around the room, looking at the boxes—casing them, as far as SRS could tell—before finally stopping at box 713. I opened it with my new key, carefully dropped in a small package with holes punched along the top, and then left.
Twelve fifty-three.
“Beatrix, you guys in place?” I asked quietly through the side of my mouth.
“Almost, Hale!” she shouted—she had to shout to be heard over the noise of the helicopter. I was grateful when she muted her comm and the noise of the chopper vanished.
Twelve fifty-five.
Step 1: Simple handoff
I crossed back over to the opposite end of the lobby and sat down on a wood bench, fidgeting and trying to look like I was waiting for a parent to finish some manner of banking business. This bench was one of the few places in the bank that the cameras didn’t have a great view of—it was in the background of peripheral shots, but nothing was aimed right at it since I was pretty far from the vaults and the bankers.
The revolving doors swung open; in walked three kids wearing black. Or rather, two wearing black, and one wearing dark gray. Aria Stoneman, Jeffery Alabaster, and Archimedes St. Claire (who was the one in a gray T-shirt looking very wary of the entire thing). Aria strode toward me, gave me a passive look, and then sat down on the adjacent bench.
“The jester sleeps in the nest,” Archimedes said in a hushed voice.
“Huh?” I asked.
“It’s code! Shouldn’t you use code or something?” Archimedes said, laughing and elbowing Jeffery.
Jeffery said, “Yeah, you’re a spy, aren’t you?”
Here was the thing: I told Aria—who told the other two—the truth about everything. Who I was—my first name, anyway. Who SRS was. Who The League was. I even told them why we’d broken into the country club that day. I didn’t do it to be kind of inclusive or awesome or anything. I did it because it was a totally crazy story no one would believe anyway, and yet also was the story most likely to get them to help us.
Except honestly? I think Aria believed me. Which was dangerous but sort of pleasing anyhow.
I slid the safe deposit key across the wooden bench swiftly, almost imperceptibly. Aria caught it with her palm.
“It’s box seven thirteen,” I said.
Aria slipped the key into her peacoat pocket and tossed her hair over her shoulder. “All right. One oh five. Right? Still one oh five?”
“Exactly,” I said.
Jeffery and Archimedes were still shoving each other—they clearly didn’t believe this was anything more than a higher stakes golf cart chase. But Aria . . . Aria looked determined. Sort of scared, but determined.
“You don’t need to worry. Nothing will happen,” I assured her.
She looked at me and grinned. “Nothing? Some adventure this is, Hale. And by the way, next time we talk, remind me to tell you a funny story about the real Kessel brothers.”
I smiled. “Deal. Well—hoods and hats on, gentlemen,” I said to the boys. Their chuckling faded away; Archimedes pulled up the hood of his jacket, and Jeffery pulled out a beanie that said ROWING IS LIFE.
One o’clock.
“Let’s go, boys,” Aria said smartly, and rose. She walked straight toward the safe deposit boxes, boot heels clacking across the marble floor.
Beatrix’s voice appeared in my ear. “They’re all set?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“They seem cool. Maybe when we’re done, we could all hang out!” she suggested.
“When we’re done in Switzerland?”
“No, when we’ve, like . . . you know. Destroyed SRS and everything. We’ll have a lot of free time. We could have a sleepover!” Beatrix said. I wanted to laugh out loud, but I managed to keep my voice down; I heard Otter scoffing through Beatrix’s headset.
“He’s not invited,” I told Beatrix, and she snickered.
Step 2: Get an eye on everything
I rose and walked over to the guard at the front door.
“Excuse me, sir? I’m . . . Well. I’m lost,” I said, taking a gulping breath.
“Oh! Oh no!” he said. “Your maman! Here, go here, we will her find!” he said with a French accent. He turned and waved his arms at another guard, who was standing at a broad desk, staring at a number of computer screens—the camera feeds. “Go see mon copain, Frederick! He will you help!”
I nodded bravely and trotted over to Frederick. The guards radioed about the situation while I was on my way between them; when I arrived at Frederick’s desk, he had a piece of chocolate for me and gestured for me to stand just off to his left—where I had a perfect view of the cameras. One oh five—and I could see Aria and her friends in the safe deposit room. I could see Hastings moving the cash from the vault to the loading dock, where an armored car we’d arranged waited. I felt bad for the driver—would he still get paid even though the whole thing was just a ruse?
“Can you describe your mother to me, son?” Frederick the guard interrupted my thoughts kindly.
“Oh, yes. She’s tall with dark hair and a straight nose. Her name is Teresa. Teresa Quaddlebaum.”
“And your name?”
“Walter Quaddlebaum,” I said placidly. “She’s here somewhere, I’m sure of it.”
I really was. Frederick nodded and turned to his phone to make a few calls, so I focused on the cameras. Everyone was in place, just waiting for the cue.
“Good afternoon, friends of the Central Bank of Switzerland. Will a Mrs. Teresa Quaddlebaum please meet your son, Walter, at the security desk? Thank you.” Frederick said—first in English, then in French, then in German.
“That’s it—go, Beatrix,” I said quietly.
“Yes!” Beatrix cheered. A moment passed, and suddenly I could hear the faint hum of a helicopter outside, hovering over the building, where Beatrix could access the bank’s network without actually setting foot inside the bank.
An alarm sounded—small but bright enough to annoy patrons without terrifying the
m. The guards, however, went wide-eyed and stood up straighter at their stations.
“They know you’re in,” I muttered.
“Got it, got it, almost there,” Beatrix answered, still sounding gleeful. Frederick’s walkie-talkie suddenly burst to life; on the cameras I saw men and women in dress shirts pounding away at computers, trying to sort out how someone had cracked their network.
“The roof? How are they on the roof?” Frederick said in response to someone on the walkie-talkie. He spun around to face me. “Stay here, son. We’ll get this sorted out. Teresa Quaddlebaum, right?”
“Right.”
And Frederick dashed off. I kept an eye on the monitors—
Step 3: Fake League agents fake rob the safe deposit boxes
Aria and her friends were in the safe deposit room, running their fingers across boxes, looking frantic, just as I’d asked them to. I looked up, saw that it wasn’t just the guards running. Five or six adults in street clothing were moving faster than necessary—SRS agents in disguise. They flew to the safe deposit box vault, looks of glee on their faces, certain they’d caught us in the act.
I watched on the monitor as they burst through the vault door, winced as they grabbed Jeffery’s arm and spun him around. There was shouting, shoving, and Jeffery’s ROWING IS LIFE beanie fell off. Aria held up her single safe deposit key to prove she belonged there. SRS agents talked into comms, shook their heads, I could read their lips—It isn’t them. They shrugged over and over.
Then Aria plucked something she’d removed from safe deposit box 713, and the agents jumped back. It was a baby iguana—just like Aria said she wanted back at the country club. The agents went all wide-eyed again, a combination of confused and horrified. Archimedes and Jeffery laughed so loud that I thought I could hear traces of it all the way from the lobby; Aria, meanwhile, cuddled the iguana to her chest. I wondered what she’d name it.
Step 4: Hastings does a lot of heavy lifting for no reason
I looked back at the camera with Hastings—he had the money into the truck now and was standing impatiently outside the back. The driver was nearby, spinning the keys on his finger, waiting for the go-ahead from Hastings, who was waiting for me or someone else from The League. We were never coming, of course, and unfortunately, SRS would get to keep their cash. It was satisfying, though, to see Hastings panting and sweating from all the money pushing.
The Inside Job Page 16