[JJ06] Quicksand (9 page)

CHAPTER 16

Two hours until show time.

My part in the plan was easy. That didn’t stop my whole body from tingling as Lane applied my disguise, or my foot from tapping nervously as I watched Lane speaking on his cell phone to his—
our—
conspirators.

I was to deliver a folded cardboard box to a man carrying a painting. The box would be tucked inside a shopping bag with other purchases, so as not to arouse suspicion. It was the timing that was important. I had to wait until he walked by an appointed spot, then drop the bag where he could pick it up. It was easy—in theory.

If things went right, there was no need for me to be in disguise. It was only a precaution, Lane said. Why not be careful?

While Lane transformed my appearance with a skillful hand, the impact of what I was doing caught up with me. I was supposed to be saving history, not destroying it. Stealing from the Louvre was the exact opposite of what I’d dedicated my life to do. Lane had promised the painting would be returned, but still refused to reveal the details of the plan beyond what I needed to know to play my part. There was no time left to argue. I trusted him. That had to be enough. It had to be.

I expected to get a wig, and perhaps a pillow wrapped around my waist. But the ways in which Lane altered my looks were much more subtle. My disguise was more of a non-disguise. My hair that usually fell at my shoulders was pulled into a bun, and a white scarf wrapped around my hairline. Tooth caps shifted the shape of my mouth and affected my speech. Lane put three pairs of glasses on my face before settling on pink cat-eye frames. He sat back and nodded as he appraised me.

“That’s it?” I asked.

“The simple route is almost always the best one,” Lane said as he handed me the final touch: bright pink lipstick.

“Lipstick? You think this garish shade of pink will make a difference?”

“Trust me.”

I applied the lipstick, then walked over to a mirror. My pink lips parted in surprise. Though not much had been done, I was a different person.

Lane came up behind me and held up a fluffy white cashmere sweater and pink jeans. “Put these on, and your transformation will be complete. You’ll be the anti-Jaya.”

That almost got a smile out of me. I only wear subtle, dark colors. After growing up with my hippie father who believed tie-dye
was meant for every possible fabric from clothing to curtains to bedspreads, I’d had a lifetime’s worth of bright clothing by the time I left home at sixteen.

My gaze stayed fixed on the mirror, looking between the stranger in front of me whose reflection mirrored my own, and the strange man behind me who looked nothing like the real Lane Peters.

Like my own transformation, Lane’s had been subtle, yet he was a completely different person. His dark blond wavy hair was now slicked back, a subtle reddish tint showing under the lights. Blue contact lenses covered his hazel eyes, replacing his glasses. Freckles dotted his nose and cheeks. A fitted set of teeth, covering his own, changed both the shape of his mouth and did more to lessen the impact of his angular cheek bones than I would have thought possible.

“Where’s everyone else?” I asked, turning around from the mirror and taking the white and pink clothes from Lane. “Don’t we have to go soon?”

“Everyone is arriving separately.”

“You and I aren’t going together?”

Lane shook his head. “Just remember, in a little over an hour, this will be over.”

When I was done changing into the cute, fluffy clothing, Lane was gone, North there in his place, holding two coats and a shopping bag from the department store Le Bon Marché.

“Very nice,” he said, looking me up and down. “Lane would have been superb in Hollywood.” He shook his head. “If only he’d had different mentors.”

“Why aren’t you ready?” I asked.

“Whatever are you talking about?” He held up the coats and bag in his hands. “The pink coat is yours, as you may have gathered.”

“But you look like yourself.”

He blinked at me. “I’m merely a respectable art dealer visiting the Louvre. I have no part to play in whatever madness is about to take place at the museum.”

I grumbled and grabbed the pink coat.

Riding the elevator down into the lobby of the Louvre, I felt like I was descending into the belly of the beast. Throngs of tourists swarmed over every inch of the lobby. My chest tightened. This was a very bad idea. What was I thinking, going along with this?

“Thirty minutes,” North said, shrugging out of his coat. “You have time to join me for coffee.”

“I don’t want any.”

“Don’t you want to see what’s going on?” He held up his phone. On the screen was a video. The camera bounced around from person to person, going in and out of focus. I caught a glimpse of one of the sculptures I’d seen on my earlier tour of the museum. This was a video feed from inside the museum. 

“Lane,” I whispered, watching the jerky movements of the video feed. It wasn’t the type of view I’d expect from a hand-held camera. Fro
m the height of the camera, I wondered if it was a cell phone sticking out of Lane’s shirt pocket.

“A lapel pin camera,” North said. “Now, let me get you that coffee.”

The museum had several cafés. North selected the most central location, the Pyramid Cafeteria on the first floor, overlooking the lobby on the ground floor. Only a handful of tables were placed in the outer areas of the cafeteria, which gave a better view of the crowds. The self-service tables were full when we arrived. North strode confidently up to a family at one of the tables. Not just any table, but the one at the end that both had the best view and the most privacy as it was only next to one other table.

The family sitting at the table consisted of a frazzled man, a gaunt woman who sat with perfect posture, and two sullen children, one of whom was pleading with his father. I couldn’t tell what he was saying, because it was in German, but I had the distinct impression that the museum was not a hit.

With a wide smile, North shook the man’s hand, and a few moments later they were all laughing together. North handed something to the dad in the family and they happily stood up and left. North motioned me over to the table.

“What did you say to them?”

“I happened to have extra all-expenses pre-paid passes to Disneyland Paris that I couldn’t use because my kids came down with the flu. They looked like
such
a nice family.”

“What would you have done if the table you wanted didn’t have a family?”

“I also have box seats to an opera matinee, and also—”

“I get the picture.”

“I’m always prepared.”

Dante brought us coffees and pastries, then departed. North propped the phone up on the table. Based on our vantage point, the two of us could see the screen, but nobody else could. I looked up and saw another reason he liked this particular table. It wasn’t close to any surveillance cameras.

My heart beat faster. Even though I’d barely slept, I didn’t think I could stomach any coffee. The next thing I saw on the video screen nearly made me knock over the tray of coffee on the table.

The hands of the person with the lapel camera came into view.
It wasn’t Lane.
“Who are we watching?”

“Oh,
I see
,” North said with a flash of annoyance.

“I don’t see.”

“Look at the cuffs of the jacket. Really, I thought you had an eye for detail.”

“It’s a museum uniform,” I said. The thief—whoever he was—was pretending to be a guard or a docent. Or maybe he really was one? Could he have been bribed? It must be one of the men who were part of the plan. But where was Lane?

“I don’t understand what I’m seeing,” I said, my heart pounding in my throat.

“My
goodness
.” North’s eyes sparkled.

“What?”

“You think it’s exciting.” North’s annoyance from the moment before was replaced with a wide grin. His nose scrunched with amusement.

“That’s not how I would describe what I’m feeling.”

“I can see your pupils expanding, and how quickly you’re breathing. That’s adrenaline.
Excitement
. I knew you’d be perfect.”

“Anyone ever tell you you’re kind of creepy?”

“Only in a charming way.” North tapped the edge of the phone screen showing a clock. “It’s time.” He handed me the Bon Marché bag with the flattened cardboard box tucked in between two winter sweaters.

With sweating hands, I picked up the bag and stepped into the crowd.

CHAPTER 17

I followed the instructions perfectly. I didn’t dare lose my concentration.

As I made my way through the dense crowds, I was overcome by the most unexpected feeling. My hand that gripped the shopping bag stopped sweating. The claustrophobia I felt while sitting with North was replaced by a powerful sense of control. The multilingual chatter died away as I focused single-mindedly on my goal.

As I walked through the Sully wing to the room where the heist would go down, I watched my surroundings through the pink glasses, feeling as if the clear glass had given me x-ray vision. The paintings on the walls were more vibrant than I remembered, and the sculptures more formidable. Though I was shorter than most of the people surrounding me, I felt taller today. More powerful. My shoulders squared, I strode into the room where I’d be taking action in five minutes.

Several docents and guards milled around with the museum guests. I had no way of knowing which one was part of the plan, until he acted.

“
Bonjour
,” a voice said in my ear. “
Jolie peinture.
”

I jumped. A muscular blond man gave me a wide smile that revealed exceptionally bright white teeth. For a fraction of a second I wondered if Lane had donned a completely different disguise, but I quickly saw I was mistaken.

I shook my head. “
Je ne parle pas français
.”

“An American!” he said with an accent that told me he was from Australia, or perhaps New Zealand. “Even better. I’m David. I ditched my tour group. Too boring. Want to look at the art in a completely superficial way with me?”

“Sorry, I’m busy,” I said, my nerves from ten minutes before returning full force. “Meeting up with someone.” I turned to walk away.

“I’m wounded,” David said, his hands grasped over his heart.

I spun on my heel and faced him. This was
not
part of the plan. I glanced around at the people in museum uniforms. None of
them were near the painting yet. “Look, my boyfriend is meeting me any minute. He’s, um, the jealous type.”

He flexed his muscles, his smile never wavering. “Don’t you worry, I can handle myself.”

I kept my eyes on the painting. A nondescript museum guard made his way around a boisterous Italian tour group and walked up to the painting, stopping directly in front of it. My concentration instantly sharpened. This was it. It was time for me to act.

“Come on,” my suitor continued. “I’m a fun guy. And unlike the guy you’re waiting for, I’d never leave you alone in this crazy place.”

I smiled and batted my eyelashes at him, throwing myself into the part. “All right. Let me get rid of him first. I’ll meet you in front of the Richelieu Cafe
in ten minutes.”

“That’s more like it.” He winked at me.

“I see him!” I said in a loud stage whisper. “Go!” I shoved him away, keeping my eyes locked on the fake guard in front of the painting that was going to be “borrowed.”

I watched as the guard’s hands reached out and touched the frame of the painting. I held my breath, expecting a shout from a real guard or the piercing shriek of an alarm. Nothing happened.

Jostled by a passing Japanese tour group, I lost sight of my accomplice and the painting, but when I looked up,
the painting was gone
.

A moment later, I caught sight of the fake guard. With a stoic face and a casual strut, he walked in my direction with the painting firmly grasped in both hands. Rather than tackling him, as I would have expected, the sea of people parted. Visitors’ expressions showed various degrees of confusion or surprise, but not horror. They gave him wide berth.

I didn’t have time to think about how on earth he’d managed to remove the painting. It was my signal to leave the fancy orange shopping bag at the room’s south entrance. I dropped the bag, and after one last glance at the painting in his hands, I forced myself to walk out of the room, not looking back.

The buzz of the crowds filled my ears as I made a beeline to the lobby. Why wasn’t something happening? Or maybe it was. If a security alarm sounded, I wouldn’t necessarily hear it. The museum was large—the size of eleven football fields, I’d read.

When I reached the cafe above the lobby, North was sitting in the same spot where I’d left him.

“This is better than the movies,” he said, his eyes not leaving the phone screen. “Come look.”

Shown on the video feed, the thief didn’t run. That would have been a giveaway. People in front of him weren’t going to question the person they believed to be a museum employee simply doing his job. Who were they to judge when was an appropriate time to remove a painting? A few of them cast dirty looks in his direction, though. Looking more closely, I saw the reason for the scowls. The thief wasn’t walking—he was
dancing
.

“What’s he doing?” I asked with a sinking feeling. “And why is he still carrying the painting? Does that mean he didn’t find the box I left for him? Or he didn’t have time to locate whatever is hidden in the painting?”

“All in good time. Ah! Here we are.” 

On the video screen, we watched as a real guard spotted him. The guard’s mouth opened, almost in slow motion. Or maybe that was merely my memory of it.

That’s when the thief ran.

“Something’s gone wrong.” I sprang from the chair. This was exactly what I’d been afraid of. Lane hadn’t had enough time to prepare.

“Sit down,” North hissed. “Any moment now—”

I ignored North, and ran to the railing overlooking the lobby below. The video feed had showed the thief heading back towards the lobby. If he didn’t get caught, I would see him within minutes. As I scanned the crowd, North joined me next to the railing.

“Where’s Lane?” I asked. “Shouldn’t he be stepping in now that something has gone wrong?”

“What makes you think something has gone wrong?”

“Look.” I pointed all around us. From each of the wings, people streamed into the lobby more quickly than they should have, tripping over each other. “The alarm has been raised. They must be directing guests into the main lobby.”

North held up his phone, watching the video. The thief was in one room, then another. Dodging people. A spot of orange flashed across the screen. It was the shopping bag I’d left for him. If he had it, why wasn’t he using the box inside?

“Brilliant,” North whispered.

A shout echoed in the lobby below. It was followed by several more. Something was happening. I don’t know what I expected—a deafening alarm blaring or metal bars clamping down around each wing—but none of that happened.

Instead, a dozen military-looking men ran down the small, circular staircase in the middle of the lobby across from the escalators most museum attendees used. Another set of men, and one woman, fussed around the main entrance doors. There was no message over an intercom, but people began to notice that something was going on.

The video image on the phone screen was now fuzzy. It was clear for a second or two, then went fuzzy again. I realized what was happening. The camera kept bumping into other people. The blur wasn’t an error, but rather the image of the camera pressing up against other people’s clothing. The thief was no longer running.
He was being carried along in the crowd
. It was so crowded that the thief appeared to have lost the museum guard who had spotted him.

Tourists shouted questions. Children shouted with glee. Museum staff shouted instructions—at least I assumed that’s what they were doing. They didn’t have bullhorns, and the snippets I heard from the closest wing were in French.

“Isn’t this fun?” North asked. “You can see a whole swath of humanity right here in front of you. People from every continent, speaking dozens of languages, all brought together for their appreciation of art and history.”

“Where’s Lane?”

“I anticipate he’ll be along shortly.”

North smiled as he looked into the chaos surrounding us. The escalators stopped moving. The armed guards prevented people from climbing the unmoving escalator to reach the exit. The loudest voices wafted up to us.
“Stop shoving!” “I told you this was a bad day to come to the museum!” “Harold, is that man carrying a painting?”

“There,” North said, tucking his phone into his pocket, “by the entrance to the Sully wing.” 

My throat ached as I realized what was happening. He was going to get caught. I was sure of it. Then, the most curious thing happened.

The thief smiled as he made eye contact with the guards. He gave a little wave. It was a wave goodbye—right before he dove into an especially thick section of the crowd.

People were shoulder-to-shoulder throughout most of the lobby now, so the maneuver wasn’t difficult. One moment the thief was there, and then he was gone.

“Where did he go?” I scanned the crowd, but the man had disappeared as effectively as if he’d jumped into a black hole. If this hadn’t been the Louvre, I would have sworn he’d gone down a trap door like in one of Sanjay’s magic tricks.

Seconds later, half a dozen guards reached the spot where the man had vanished. Four of them pushed people back while two of them looked at what was left in the spot.

I almost expected to see the man lying dead on the ground after swallowing a cyanide pill. But this wasn’t a spy movie. There was no dead man on the ground.

There was no man at all.

The guards pushed people back far enough that there was now at least a fifteen foot radius. Enough space for me to see from above what was happening.

On the floor was a navy blue jacket that looked like that of a museum guard. Next to it was a narrow cardboard box with a purple peace sign spray-painted on the surface, and a can of spray paint.

One of the military-looking men reached into the box. He pulled out the painting. With a stoic face, he turned it over, inspecting it for damage. He nodded to one of his compatriots, unable to suppress a smile.

If the painting was undamaged, did that mean the thief hadn’t been able to remove whatever it was they needed to borrow the painting for? I was glad he’d escaped, but wondered if North would think Lane and I hadn’t lived up to our obligations.

“What an interesting piece of performance art!” North said, raising his voice loudly enough to be heard by everyone around us. “Look, everyone, it’s a political statement!”

Murmurs of assent echoed through the crowd.
“Did you see the performance below?” “Wait ’til the kids hear about this!” “Damn hippies.”

“
That,” North whispered in my ear, “is what I call a brilliant diversion.”