A Beautiful Heist (26 page)

Naturally, I was immediately suspicious. “Why?” I asked Brooke, my eyes becoming slits.

Brooke shrugged. “Truthfully, I’ve been getting bored.” She fiddled with her coffee spoon. “I’d love an assignment, I’ve been itching for a challenge. Dabbling with this FBI work is diverting ... but it’s just not the same. Of course no agencies will work with me now. I don’t have many options.”

She stated this flatly, like she didn’t care. But I could tell by the tightness in her mouth that this was a difficult admission.

So, it was as I suspected. Her career had been left in shreds. And I could see in her face exactly how much that had broken her. How much it had left her an empty shell of a person. And I got that. Because it was exactly how I would feel.

I didn’t know if I could trust Brooke. Actually, let’s be honest. I was quite confident that I
couldn’t
trust her. However, one thing I did know about Brooke was that she was an excellent thief. And she aimed to succeed, whatever the job. The reasonable part of me was whispering in my ear that it was a mistake trusting her and working with her. The other part knew I didn’t have a choice.

Once we’d agreed, we wasted no further time. Brooke used her cell phone to book seats on the next direct flight to London. Which happened to be leaving late that evening.

My mind whirred. I had a lot of work to do before departure. And so did Brooke. She pulled out a pen and was busy scribbling notes and lists.

“Okay. Meet you at the airport?” I said, gathering up my handbag and rising.

She looked up. “You’re on. Meet you there.”

 

Back in my secret room I ransacked drawers and cupboards, packing quickly. As I rummaged in my closet I dialed Lucas, my tech guy, and flicked my phone to hands-free.

“Lucas, I’m going on a trip overseas,” I said when he answered the phone. “And there are a couple of items I’m going to need on the other side—things I can’t bring with me on an airplane. Grappling hooks and glass cutters and such. Can you help me?” Lucas was stationed in Minneapolis, the tech lab headquarters. The lab had branches and contacts all over the world.

“Sure thing, Cat. Got a list?”

I rattled off a menu of bits and pieces I would need for this job—the sorts of things that would trigger severe eye twitching in the first airport security agent to spot them on the CTX scanner screens. And would have me facing some rather awkward questions.

Lucas said he would do his best to have them all waiting for me at our hotel.

I hung up the phone and continued packing and planning. I worked away steadily, partly because there was precious little time. Mostly because I was afraid that if I stopped to think about what I was doing the tendrils of fear that I could feel curling around the edges of my consciousness would gain strength, coil and crumble the fragile stone house of my determination.

But there was something else nagging at me. When I finished gathering my equipment I glanced at the clock on the microwave. Thirteen minutes past three. I had just enough time. I decided to deal with it, head on.

I drove to the yacht club. Ever since my disastrous interview, my father had refused to talk to me. I found him waxing the sailboat; it was hauled up in the boatyard and he was preparing it for winter. It had stopped raining a couple of hours ago but the air was still fresh with it. Light was fading and growing streaky, and it was cold. I pulled my sweater tightly around me. The boatyard smelled of dirt and wind and wax.

My dad rubbed the hull with a soft cloth, using long, measured strokes. His face was peaceful as he performed his meditative task. I breathed out slowly and quietly. “Hi, Dad,” I said, walking up beside him.

He raised his head. “Oh hi, Cat.” His eyebrows lifted slightly with surprise. He then chewed the inside of his cheek. His tranquil expression took on a shadow. “I wasn’t expecting you tonight.”

I nodded. “Can I talk to you, for a minute?”

“Sure. I need a break anyway.” He smiled, faintly, and my heart tightened. He was trying.

I hopped up on a nearby stool. My legs dangled like a kid’s. He dragged a wooden crate across the ground and sat on it. “I really need another chance to explain, Dad.”

His eyebrows knitted together and he looked down at his hands. My dad’s hands were big and strong, darkened by the sun and weathered from years of hauling sail rope and holding onto the backs of kids’ bicycle seats. He didn’t stop me, so I continued.

“Being a thief is what I do best. It’s what I was made to do.”

Two scornful lines deepened between his eyebrows. “That’s ridiculous. It’s illegal. It’s not away of life.”

“For me, it is.”

“Cat, you deserve a normal life, you deserve to be happy.”

I looked down. “Actually, Dad, I don’t.” I made a fist and felt the edge of Penny’s ring digging into the soft tissue of my finger.

My father, of course, balked. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

How could I even begin to explain this?

My stomach tightened like a reef knot. “Dad, it was my fault Penny died. And ever since then, I’ve been trying to make up for that.”

“What are you talking about?”

“She was out there because of me. She needed me to steal something.” My dad flinched. “It would have been so easy for me. But I wouldn’t do it. I had decided that this thing I could do, stealing, was wrong. So she tried to do it instead. And the universe showed me my mistake.

“All she needed me to do, Dad, was be true to myself. There’s one thing in this world I’m good at, and I have to honor that. Penny knew it. But I thought I knew better.”

I bit my lip and kept going. “Ever since then I’ve honored Penny by not turning my back on my true calling. And I’ve been living with the hope that, one day, I will be able to atone for the fact that her death was my fault.”

And then, I thought, maybe I’d be worthy of true happiness. The brief romance I’d had with Jack, the fact that it had failed and broke my heart was just proof that I did not deserve the fairy-tale ending. But . . . maybe someday.

I waited. My dad said nothing for a while.

“Cat—I don’t know what to think.
Penny
knew about this? That’s what she was trying to do when she—” His voice choked off. He shook his head. “I can’t believe it.”

I fiddled with the edge of my sweater. “If it reassures you in any way, I have rules for myself. I never steal anything that’s not insured. I never steal from anyone who would go hungry. And I never steal frivolously. I’m still a good person, Dad. I’m just doing what I do best in this world. And isn’t that what you always wanted for us? To do our best?”

He looked up at me. His eyes were creased with anguish, but he managed a small smile.

“But what’s wrong with a fine, legitimate career? Maybe you don’t want to be an accountant. But what about, say, becoming a teacher? That would be a good life for you, wouldn’t it?”

“Dad—I don’t want
fine.
I don’t want
good.
That’s not enough for me. I want to be
the best.
And being a thief—I could be the best.” I twisted the edge of my sweater into my fists. “As long as I’m a thief, I’ll never be ordinary. I don’t want to have a mediocre life. I don’t want to be an average person, with average accomplishments, and a so-so life.”

The tissues around his eyes were pinched and taught; he looked tired. He was trying hard to understand, I could see that.

I pressed on, because I had one more thing I needed to tell him. “I’m going away on a trip, Dad. I’m leaving tonight. It’s for a job,” I said gently. He recoiled as if struck; he knew what
job
referred to. “This one is different, though. I’m not actually getting paid for this one. I’m just trying to make something right. If I succeed I’ll be correcting a very old wrong.”

He rubbed his jaw, but still said nothing. I slid down from my stool and walked to stand beside him. I grasped his rough hand in mine.

“There are some truly evil people in this world, Dad, but I’m not one of them. I know I’m not exactly following the rules of society as they’ve been traditionally laid out but, I swear, I’m still a good person. Your approval has always meant the world to me. So I’m here today to ask you: can you find it, somewhere in your heart, to support me on this?”

I took a deep breath. I was finished. I felt wrung out, yet somehow, hopeful. I stood staring at my father, holding his hand. My final question hung in the air.

There was a long silence.

In those moments, in my mind, there was a heartfelt hug. Tears. And gruffly mumbled statements of unconditional love.
If that’s what you really need to do to be happy . . .

In the real world my father looked at me and he said, “No, Cat. I just can’t.”

My chest crushed inward and I closed my eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and his voice cracked. He released my hand. “It’s just too much. I’m afraid for you, yes, for your safety. Of course. But more than that, I just can’t understand your moral choice. I didn’t think your mother and I had raised you like this.”

I gazed into his face. His eyes were oceans of regret and disappointment. “Of course, you’re an adult,” he said. “And you can do whatever you choose. I’m not going to try to stop you.”

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

“But I’m not giving you my blessing. And”—he paused here, briefly—“I really don’t want to hear any more about it.”

And that was all there was to it. As I left the boatyard, my eyes stung and I blinked against the low, cold October sun.

Jack walked briskly toward the airport from his parked car, wondering what this meeting would hold. He checked his watch eagerly and sped up a little, breathing in the smell of jet fuel. God knows he needed some distraction after the afternoon he’d had. And, at this point, anything would be an improvement over standing in the pouring rain having your beating heart ripped out of your chest.

Oliver Cole and Wesley Smith had made it sound urgent that Jack come to them tonight. Maybe there was some news? A development with the Fabergé? Jack crossed the road in front of the terminal, cutting it very close between two oncoming cars. One of the drivers blared his horn and yelled something incomprehensible, but Jack didn’t slow down. He passed through the gliding doors, out of the night air and into the fluorescent-lit world of the airport terminal. The terminal smelled of floor polish, carpet, and stale coffee.

They hadn’t told him to pack a bag but he had, anyway. He was ready for anything. He found them quickly, where they said they’d be in the international departures lounge. His badge admitted him past the security checkpoint. Jack slowed his pace, strolled over to them and took a seat nearby. He waited, keenly.

“It’s over, Jack,” said Oliver Cole. “The Egg is gone—overseas. Sandor and the Caliga have taken it to London.”

Jack blinked. “Oh.”

“But the good news, here, is that you’re off the hook. We don’t need you anymore. The case is now in the hands of our team over there.”

Jack listened and said nothing. Of course, he should have felt relieved. Should have been happy that he was free now. But he didn’t. He felt a failure, and he felt incomplete—like walking away from a card game when there was money on the table.

Jack had started to believe in this quest—beyond his obligation. He glanced down at the small overnight bag he’d packed. It looked pathetic sitting there on the seat beside him. Like a girl waiting to be asked to dance.

“What happens now?” Jack asked. “What are your plans?”

“Well, we’re going to London to meet up with the team. They’re already doing the groundwork.”

“So what’s the story? Where is it in London? Do you know?” He looked at Wesley.

Wesley nodded. “We finally tracked down the old prophecy that the Caliga are following.” He handed Jack a folded piece of paper.

Jack read it.

Jack looked up. “Where did you get this?”

“We hacked into FBI e-mail. Looks like this has officially become a case now. And the agent heading it is Nicole Johnson.”

Jack’s eyebrows shot up. But he shouldn’t have been surprised. She had, after all, asked him about it a few times. “Okay, so what does it mean? Twice taken?”

“We figure that refers to the fact that it was stolen in the first place, long ago, and now it’s been stolen again.”

A muffled announcement came over the PA system, last boarding call for flight AF275 to Paris. “And the place of time’s origin?” Jack asked.

“We know they’ve gone to London. The obvious connection is the international date line at Greenwich. And, to confirm that, there’s an old church and school in Greenwich, just down the hill from the royal observatory, and it’s called St. Stephen’s.”

“Ah. The last line of the prophecy.” Jack looked between the two men. “Did you figure this out all by yourselves?”

Wesley looked slightly sheepish. “No.”

“Nicole?”

He nodded. “She had a source who supplied the answers, apparently”

Jack frowned, wondering about Nicole’s source. Could it be Brooke? There was something about this—the hacked-in e-mail, the prophecy—that bothered Jack, but he couldn’t quite place it. Besides, he had other questions. “Won’t the FBI be all over this, then?” he asked.

“No. Nicole’s supervisor is ignoring it—he’s not taking Nicole’s source seriously.” Jack nodded. That was how her department tended to operate.

Cole and Wesley told Jack, then, that to protect him they would sever their communication channel with him, wipe it clean. There would be no official record of their relationship. That was why they had called him for this one last meeting.

“You won’t be able to contact us,” Cole said. “Should a need ever arise in the future, we will contact you. But you’re under no obligation. We appreciate what you have done for us thus far.”

They were words Jack should have been happy and relieved to hear. But, somehow, they made him feel worse. After Jack left the departure lounge he carried his sorry little bag to the airport bar before heading home.

What was he going to do now? Jack wondered, watching the bartender pour his Scotch. He took a sip, feeling waves of open ocean swell around him. He was a man adrift, bobbing like a cork. And only mere hours ago he’d been so certain of his bearing. Now, his compass had dropped overboard.

He swallowed another burning sip and looked up. The LCD television hanging above the bar captured his drifting focus. It was the
BBC World News.
Headlines ran across the bottom in ticker-tape fashion. The sports anchor was reviewing highlights of the World Cup game between Brazil and England. The picture then flicked to politicians standing in front of Westminster, the parliamentary buildings.

Jack frowned at this. It tugged at his mind, as though he should be remembering something—but he couldn’t quite think what. He took a final sip, placed money on the bar and left, lost in thought.

 

I arrived at the airport and immediately went to the check-in counter. In the terminal, sounds bounced off the polished floor and around the cavernous ceiling. Luggage cart wheels squeaked. Ribbon-bordered lineups of restless travelers snaked across the floor. The faint roar of jet engines rumbled outside.

I sipped a stale, horrible cup of coffee and scanned the area for Brooke. I began to panic—
she’s not here, she changed her mind
—and I had to calm myself down. My insides were simmering and rumbling, like a pot of pasta sauce on a stove top when you hear it starting to seethe. You know any minute it’s going to boil and let out a great splat all over your ceramic backsplash.

I took a deep breath.

Major nerves were not going to help me now. I had to focus. Then I saw Brooke, striding toward me down the long gleaming foyer, toting a Louis Vuitton Pullman.

I nodded to her and we moved to join the check-in line. But as I turned, my eyes popped wide. Standing beside a row of luggage carts, smiling at me with a crooked grin, was Ethan Jones.

I was too dumbfounded to move, so Ethan strolled over to me. He had a small carry-on bag with him.

“You—you changed your mind?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Looks that way.”

There was a polite clearing of the throat behind my right shoulder. I turned. Brooke was waiting, expectantly, eyebrow raised. “Someone you know, Cat?”

“Um, yes, right—Brooke, Ethan,” I said, introducing them. “Ethan is a ...
colleague,
at AB&T.”

Brooke inclined her head appreciatively. “You don’t say.”

“Brooke is going to be helping me with this, um, job,” I said to Ethan. “I mean—helping
us,
I guess?”

Suddenly, what had felt like
Mission Impossible
now seemed a lot more possible. With three of us we had a fighting chance. I watched while Ethan spoke to Brooke, as she asked him about his experience and history with AB&T. He glanced at me and I mouthed “Thank you.” He grinned and winked.

After checking in and going through the security checkpoints, we located seats in the waiting concourse of Gate 32. I took the opportunity to pop to the restroom. “I’ll be right back,” I said to them.

On my return I passed a bar, partially tucked behind plate glass walls. Ice cubes chinked as they dropped in glasses, people lounged at tables with newspapers and drinks. Bottles filled the space behind the bar, jewel-like, filled with colored liquids like an old-fashioned apothecary. And there, sitting at the nickel-plated bar and clutching a glass of whiskey, was Jack.

I stopped dead. What was he doing here? Should I go in and talk to him?

No. Bad idea. I’d have to explain why I was at the airport. Besides, he did not look in the mood for company. I experienced an agitated, torn feeling.

If I wasn’t going to talk to him I had to move. If he saw me standing here staring at him, that would be bad. I tucked in against the wall. I noticed a drinking fountain and bent down to it. As the cool water touched my lips I turned my eyes up. I could still see him. His hair was unkempt, clearly hadn’t seen a comb that day, and he was showing slight stubble. He looked miserable and lost and I had no idea why. And this made me sad. Truth was, I didn’t know what was going on with Jack anymore. I just wasn’t a part of his life.

I experienced an urge to comfort him, to walk into the bar and tell him that I loved him. That I have always loved him. My left foot took a step forward. But then I hesitated.

I flashed back to the last time I’d seen Jack, in the cloakroom, when he’d pushed me away. The pain of that still stung. I couldn’t stand the thought of being rejected by him. And, let’s face it, why
wouldn’t
he reject me?

A small voice inside said:
I don’t deserve him.
Not yet, anyway.

I stood immobile for two further heartbeats, then tore myself away and walked to the departure gate. I didn’t look back.

I forced myself to sit. Imaginary ropes held me down to the waiting room chair. I borrowed a magazine from Brooke, compelling myself to read about liposuction and eyelash extensions and celeb gossip and this season’s boots. I tried my best to ignore the feelings that were hovering in my peripheral vision like a spider in the corner of the room.

“So listen, ladies,” Ethan said, leaning in to us. “After you came to me about this job, Montgomery, I did some digging and made a few calls. Interested in hearing what I found out?”

Brooke looked up, an eyebrow raised. “By all means.”

This was a great idea. Talking about the job would be a perfect distraction. Not to mention necessary to the task at hand.

Ethan nodded and removed a file from his carry-on bag. I blinked. A file? This was a whole new side of Ethan. “From the intelligence I could gather, they’ve secured themselves within Westminster Palace.”

Brooke blinked. “The Parliament buildings themselves?
Big Ben?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, that sounds easy enough to break into,” I said flatly. “Nondescript. Unnoticeable.”

Ethan ignored my sarcasm and pressed on. “Sandor has a minister in his pocket. So they’re using a wing of Westminster Palace. They’re in the Victoria Tower, which is where the parliamentary archives are kept. It’s got the tightest security of the entire building. From the reports I could gather, they haven’t set foot out of there since arriving in London, so the Aurora must be up there with them.”

I was inclined to agree. “I’m sure Sandor wouldn’t let it out of his sight, or his possession.”

At that moment our flight was called. Brooke, Ethan, and I boarded the plane and slid into the plush leather seats of business class. On this size of aircraft, the middle section of business class had three seats together. I sat between Brooke and Ethan. It grew stuffy as we waited for takeoff—in spite of the deafening ventilation that drowned out the piped-in music. Flight attendants bustled up and down the aisles as passengers jockeyed for position in the stash-your-carry-on game.

Just as I was settling into my seat, my phone rang.

“Hello, darling.” It was my mother. “Listen, I want you to come with me tomorrow to get Reiki done. This girl I’ve found is a genius.”

“Sorry, Mom. Can’t. I’m on a plane right now.” I admit, it gave me a small pleasure to be able to brush my mother off with a bona fide excuse.

“
Are
you? Where are you going? And with whom?”

“London. I’m going with some . . . colleagues.” I glanced at Brooke, seated to my right. Ever since the bookstore signing, my mother had been on my case to be more like the famous thief who clearly had her life together and always had fabulous hair. “Brooke Sinclair, actually, is one,” I said.

“Really?
”

“Listen, Mom—don’t mention anything about this to Templeton, okay? If you’re talking to him, that is. Which you
shouldn’t
be, by the way.”

“Certainly,” she said.

Ethan leaned over to me. “Cat, put your tray up, we’re taking off soon,” he said. I nodded.

“Listen,” said my mother. “I don’t want you going anywhere near that Hackney neighborhood in London. I was just watching this program on television and it’s a very dangerous place....”

“Mom, I’m not going to Hackney. I’m going to a very safe neighborhood. Westminster, actually. You know, Big Ben? I’ll be fine.”

“Hmm. Well, more importantly, dear, did you take a Bonine? You know you get airsick sometimes.”

I rolled my eyes. “Mom, I haven’t been airsick since I was five.”

“Did you remember to pack the new grappling hook I bought you? I read excellent reviews about it—”

“Yes. I packed it,” I lied.

“Oh, and, darling, do you have an umbrella? It’s terribly rainy in London this time of year.”

“Mom, I’m hanging up now.”

“Good luck, sweetheart!”

I turned off my phone just in time for takeoff. The lights were dimmed and we were jiggling and jostling as the plane lumbered down the runway. There was a pause and then the engines roared louder and I felt pressed back in the seat, like there was an invisible hand on my sternum. We lifted up then, and everything felt lighter. We were on our way. I took a deep breath. The seat belt sign eventually bonged and turned off.