A Beautiful Heist (9 page)

“I mean there is no going back. Once we’ve shown you what we’re about to show you, you can’t back out. There’s too much sensitive information here. Do you understand?”

Okay, that sounded ominous. Maybe this was a bad idea. Sandor stood close enough that I could smell the peppermint on his breath. I glanced at the doors we entered through. What did he mean, no backing out? What if, once I learned the details of the job, I didn’t think it could be done? Aborting a mission, even in the thick of it, had always been my fallback position. What would happen—what would they
do
—if I were to back out? I shuddered slightly and realized that I didn’t know much at all about these people. I had no idea how far they would go.

Trouble was, I knew exactly how far the IRS would go. And I knew I couldn’t risk sacrificing my freedom. I couldn’t go to prison. And that was the bottom line.

Besides, how could I have lived with myself if I gave up this opportunity?

“Yes, I understand. Absolutely.” I strove to keep my voice level, without tremor, and I mostly succeeded.

He walked toward the full-length mirror, touched an area on the carved frame, and the glass of the mirror swung slowly inward. A secret doorway. I smiled. The guy really did love his cloak and dagger.

We stepped through the mirror and descended a dark staircase; my shoes made faint scuffle sounds on the stone steps. The air was cold and damp, mushroomy. The staircase twisted to the left and ended at a large oak door. Sandor opened four separate locks with a large ring of skeleton keys. He pushed the door open.

I chewed my lip and kept my breathing steady. I couldn’t see past him, see what was behind the door. An irrational question flashed into my brain—
if I go through, will I ever come back out?
—and I pushed it down scornfully. I followed Sandor and stepped through into the room beyond.

My breath quickened; we entered a room carved out of rough-hewn stone. The ceiling was low but arched, like a medieval wine cellar. There were half a dozen people gathered around an old oak table, men, mostly, some with gray hair and the pregnant bellies of a long rich life, others young and sharp eyed. All were formally dressed. Wall sconces flickered and the honeyed scent of candle smoke infused the room. An old-fashioned slide projector rested in the middle of the table, and a screen that was slightly off kilter with a small tear hung on a wall.

Everyone stood as we walked into the room. Two people took the opportunity to shake my hand, smiling: the lone woman, middle-aged with a steel gray bob, and a tall man with an asymmetric nose and warm eyes. I smiled uncertainly back. These were all strangers to me, yet they were behaving like we were old business colleagues. I couldn’t help wondering what they knew about me. My skin crept. I didn’t like people knowing things about me when I knew so little about them.

But all that was going to change soon. It was time to find out exactly what was going on.

“Okay, people, as you know, this is Catherine Montgomery,” Sandor said, addressing the room. I looked around and it hit me that all these people were gathered there because of me. And in spite of myself, my chest swelled with a radiant pride. I was special—they all thought I could do this. They brought me here because they thought I was the best. I clenched my hands behind my back. Would I be able to prove them right?

I realized, belatedly, that Sandor had removed his mask and that I, unfortunately, still had mine pushed up on my head like a ridiculous peacock headdress. I whipped it off.

I took a seat.

“Would you like some water?” the man to my left asked with a faint Russian accent. Ice cubes clinked as he poured from a pitcher and handed me a glass.

Before I could ask any questions the servants snuffed the wall sconces and everything went dark. My pulse ramped up a notch. A pale square flicked onto the projection screen and the ancient slide projector whirred into operation.

Flick.

A picture of a Fabergé Egg appeared on screen. “This is your objective,” Sandor said. “The Aurora Egg.”

My eyes widened. It was absolutely gorgeous. Every inch of the black-enameled Egg was adorned with gold filigree, seed pearls, and onyx.

“Hugo is going to give us some details on the Aurora’s heritage,” Sandor said.

A man with an unreasonably large chin and a thin mouth rose. He stood beside the screen. “The Aurora Egg was stolen from our family during the Russian Revolution of 1917.” Hugo’s voice ran low and rich. “In the lists of Fabergé Eggs, no Eggs are noted for the years 1904 and 1905. It was assumed that no Eggs were produced during those years. But that was an inaccurate assumption. The czar kept these secretly produced Eggs apart from the others. The knowledge of their existence has been passed down through our family.”

“Why were they a secret?” I asked abruptly.

There was a tense silence and a cough in the room. I got the distinct feeling my questions were neither expected nor particularly desired. Still, after a moment, Hugo addressed me.

“It was a time of war between Russia and Japan. It was also a time of unrest that eventually led to the revolution. Like many other luxuries, the jewelers’ craft went underground. Unfortunately, this made these particular Eggs easier to steal and smuggle away. The revolution wiped out most of the trail, but we have finally traced the Aurora here to America. It is in the possession of a powerful family of criminals.”

The screen changed to show a black-and-white photo of a man, flanked by two other men who could have been his brothers. They were dark haired, with the thick, heavy features highly prized by the casting directors of films like
The Godfather.

“The Gorlovich family,” Sandor said. “They run a chain of casinos, and one of them is here in Seattle. The Starlight Casino. We know there’s a vault beneath this casino. The family holds many of their personal valuables in that vault. Our information leads us to believe the Aurora is in that vault.”

“What kind of information?” I asked.

“Our operatives have gathered intelligence from one of the security staff there. Mikhail?”

Heads swiveled to Mikhail. He had a peculiarly flat head at the back, like someone had smashed him with a heavy frying pan. The lack of contour on the back of his head was compensated by the extreme architecture of his face—deep-set eyes, prominent nose, large cleft in his chin. He stood and took over the presentation. “We have learned of a rumor about an old Russian treasure being kept in the vault,” Mikhail said with a reedy voice.

“We’re going in based on a rumor?” I asked. This was not what I considered good recon. Someone cleared his throat at the end of the table. I heard water pouring into a glass.

“No. There’s also this,” Mikhail said. He produced a file. “These are official papers from the casino, taken from the casino’s security room. It lists the vaults under the casino, but the one that interests us is the Bagreef Vault. The list of contents are described only as ‘classified.’”

“So?” I asked. Classified could mean anything. “What does Bagreef mean? What language is that? Hindu?”

“No,” Sandor said. “It’s an anagram.
Fabergé.”

A chill ran through me. “So it is.” With that, I knew we were on.

The screen flicked again to another shot of the Aurora Egg. I stared at it. The intricacy and craftsmanship were stunning. Gold detail scalloped the ebony surface, and the enamel was quilted with jewel-work. “So . . . what’s inside the Egg?” I asked.

Sandor and Hugo exchange a flicker of a glance. “Inside?” Sandor asked.

“Yes, the ‘surprise.’ Fabergé Eggs were all created with an interior chamber containing a little surprise, weren’t they? Like a charm.” I smiled at the steel gray woman next to me.

“Mmm. Right,” Sandor said. “Just a carving, we think. A figurine or something. Not important.” He waved a dismissive hand.

I frowned. Was it really possible they didn’t know what was inside? Why didn’t they seem interested?

Whispers eddied around the table and the picture on the screen changed, flicking to a shot of the casino.

“Here—you should examine the security file.” Sandor slid the manila folder across the table. “Everything you need to know should be there.”

I flipped through the pages in the file. I scanned some superficial listings of systems—CCTV, entry alarms, that sort of thing. But as far as everything I needed to know? Not even close.

“Now, is there anything else you can think of?” he asked.

I took a deep breath. “Actually, yes. I need detailed schematics. Cameras, locks, other security features. I need to know how their computer and wireless systems work.” Murmurs fluttered around the table. “I need to know about the casino staff, their hours,” I continued. “And I’ll need blueprints of the casino. Windows, doors, exits, and a schematic of the underground passages, and the vault, specifically.”

“Okay,” Sandor said, licking his lower lip. “You really need all of that?” Hugo, Mikhail, and all the others stared at me with varying degrees of suspicion and unease.

They clearly didn’t get it.

“We could try, perhaps—” Sandor snapped his fingers and the tall man with the asymmetric nose at the end of the table started frantically scribbling notes.

“You know what?” I said quickly. “Why don’t I do the recon myself? That way, I can get what I need.”

Sandor shrugged and nodded.

“But maybe you could tell me more about this casino guy?” I asked. “The family—Gorlovich, is it?”

“The Gorlovich family is dangerous,” Hugo said in his rumbling voice. “They are underground, and very secretive. They are aware of our presence. However, they do not feel we are a threat.”

I wondered if this was what Jack was referring to upstairs. Were members of the Gorlovich family at the ball? My stomach kicked inward—this was going to make things more complicated. Although, if Jack was on the case they wouldn’t be a threat for long. A flush of pride unexpectedly glowed inside me, thinking of Jack’s ability to do his job. I reached for the condensation-beaded water glass that rested in front of me.

“Okay, so we should discuss the deadline,” Sandor said, rubbing his hand through his hair.

“Deadline?” My hand froze midway to my glass.

“We’ve been hearing rumors about plans to move the Fabergé to a new location. Somewhere in Prague, we believe.”

“Okay, so what’s the deadline?” I asked. “When are they moving the Egg?” I lifted the cool water glass to my mouth for a sip.

“Three weeks,” Sandor said.

My hand jerked suddenly and ice cubes clinked and water splashed down around my mouth and onto the front of my gown. I hastily replaced the glass on the table and mopped at my mouth with my pashmina.

“Is—is that going to be a problem?” Sandor asked. He frowned slightly.

Yikes.
Three mere weeks to do recon, get prepped, and do the job was shaving it very close. Typically, that sort of heist would take at least three
months.
But let’s face it, I didn’t have that sort of time if I was to keep the IRS happy. I looked at the faces around the table, all hopeful and needy and apprehensive.

I swallowed. “That should be fine. No problem whatsoever.”

The next day, I wasted no time. I plunged straight into the job.

Now, when casing a target there are various strategies for obtaining key pieces of information. There’s the old-school method: dress like a bag lady, root through garbage, and pull out bills, bank statements, etcetera.

One word: yuck. Modern-day equivalent? Pay a visit to your friendly neighborhood computer hacker.

This was precisely the reason I was driving out to the suburbs on this honey gold and crisp September morning. I turned down a leafy, glowing street and parked outside a gingerbread-cute bungalow.

I rang the bell and the door opened. A grandmotherly figure—all round arms and ample bust and cinnamon-bun hair—greeted me, blanketed in the tangy, buttery smell of freshly baked rhubarb pie. She welcomed me with a warm, wrinkly smile. “Well, Cat!” she said, planting a hand on her hip. “What a lovely surprise. You’re just in time for some pie.”

“Hi, Gladys.”

She ferried me inside. The house was warm and tidy, trimmed with lace curtains and avocado-green appliances, circa 1972. She took my suede coat and I sat at the kitchen table, scraping an aluminum chair across the brown linoleum floor. She sliced an enormous wedge of pie and placed a steaming mug of tea before me.

“So,” I asked, “is your grandson at home?”

Gladys wiped crumbs from the counter with a cloth. “No, dear,” she said pleasantly. “He’s out skateboarding or some such thing. He’ll probably be gone until later this afternoon.”

I paused and took a sip of hot, sweet tea.
“Good,”
I said. I raised an eyebrow and looked at her over the edge of my teacup. “Got a little favor to ask, Gladys,” I said.

“Oh?” Her eyes twinkled mischievously. “In that case, step into my office.”

She led me through the living room, past the chintz-covered sofa with lace doilies on the arms, and then to a small nook. She stepped around an easel that supported an unfinished watercolor of a seascape, pushed her knitting basket aside, and closed thick brown curtains, plunging the room into darkness.

She twisted a skeleton key in a wardrobe lock and flung open broad doors to expose a pair of top-of-the-line CPUs, four LCD screens, and a wireless router.

Gladys was my hacker. And she was the best.

She sat and began booting up her machines. The computers hummed, the LCD screens flickered to life. I began explaining what I needed: details of Starlight Casino’s security. Schematics, blueprints, as much information as possible.

I took a seat and peered over her shoulder. “Maybe we should start with the security company the Starlight Casino has under contract? I don’t know which one it is, though.”

“No problem,” she said. Her knobby fingers flew over the keyboard. “For starters, let’s get into the casino’s e-mail.” She scrolled down the screen. “Okay . . . here we go . . . ah, yes! There.” Her face brightened like a child’s on Christmas morning. “This is the accountant’s details.”

Then, quick as a finger snap, she was into the bookkeeping system. She went from screen to screen like she was changing television channels, then cracked into the casino’s bank. A grandfather clock ticked in the corner of the room; I could hear the faint buzz of talk radio from the kitchen. As she trolled through the list of bills, I got a familiar bubbly feeling inside my chest. We were getting close.

And then, Gladys frowned. She clicked a few more buttons. She sat back and folded her arms across her chest with a grumble. “Well, Cat, you’re not going to be happy with this.”