by Kim Foster
I squinted through the peephole in the door. The security guard was there, trying not to fall asleep on the chair in the corridor. I held my breath and crossed my fingers.
Then his walkie-talkie crackled to life. He picked it up, listened, and nodded. “I’ll check it out.”
As he disappeared down the corridor, I waited several seconds, then slipped out the door. Both Paisley Shaw and the guard were in for an unpleasant surprise shortly, but it couldn’t be helped.
I darted to the stairwell door. I raced down one flight, then left the stairwell to grab the elevator the rest of the way.
The exposure made my skin crawl more than conversations with insurance salesmen did.
Security cameras I could take care to avoid. Less predictable were witnesses. At this hour it was unlikely anyone would be in the corridors or the elevator. But I wasn’t taking any chances. I forced myself to stroll toward the elevators.
When sneaking around in a public place, there are two ways to go. One, you can skulk along quietly and sneakily. But this must be attempted only when you are absolutely positive you will not be seen. Because if you are caught, nothing looks more guilty.
The other way to go is walking purposefully, casually, like you’re doing absolutely nothing wrong. This, generally, is my preferred way to move about. It’s much easier to cover if someone asks you where you’re going. But it’s also far less likely that anyone will ask you in the first place.
If you keep yourself as non-memorable, as non-noteworthy as possible, you can slip through this life doing just about anything you please.
Inside the empty elevator, I pressed the CLOSE DOOR button and kept pressing it. Then I pressed the LOWER LEVEL button and did not let go until the elevator started to move downward. It’s an old police trick, commandeering an elevator. The elevator wouldn’t stop now until it reached the lower level.
The car glided all the way down, motor humming, a vanilla instrumental version of Van Halen tinkling softly.
The doors opened, and a dimly lit, blue paisley carpeted corridor stretched out ahead. A small sign pointed the way to the pool and exercise gym.
My escape from this hotel was getting closer; I could taste it.
The pool door led directly onto a deck, into a viewing area. I pushed the glass door open and walked into a powerful cloud of chlorine. The air echoed with the sound of a solo swimmer’s arms slapping rhythmically on the water’s surface. I ducked into the changing room. My plan was simple at this point. Lose the robe, escape out the window, and we’d be all done here.
And it was a good strategy. Except for one small issue. As I looked around, I noticed a distinct shortage of windows. Specifically, there were none. I did a quick mental review of the blueprint. Shit. The changing room was smack in the middle of the hotel. Solid walls all around.
Memo to self:
Next time, mentally review blueprint before patching together impromptu escape plan.
Fine. I’d have to walk out through the lobby. First, I needed a costume change; I couldn’t walk out wearing this robe. I looked immediately at the lockers. Perfect. I’d just take the clothes of the unlucky person who had come down to do a few laps.
I found the locker with the missing key. And picked the lock in approximately the time it takes to file my nails. I opened the door. I was going to be out of here in less than five—
Robe.
I stared at the sole item hanging in the locker. A white, fluffy hotel robe, the exact same one I was already wearing.
Crap. Not helpful. Not even a little bit.
Okay, I couldn’t exit the hotel in my robe. I couldn’t exit in my black Lycra. I couldn’t sneak out a window in the changing room. What was my next move here? I thought of the emerald earrings on my person, imagined being caught with them. I couldn’t let that happen.
Then I heard a faint clanging coming from the far side of the changing room. And the soft whirring of a machine. A treadmill?
The gym. There was a gym on the other side of these changing-room walls, and somebody was in there. Maybe, just maybe, that person had come down to the gym and changed out of regular clothes.
I entered the gym changing room, preparing to crack another locker. Instead, I was rewarded by the sight of a hoodie and sweats hanging from a hook.
I grabbed them. They were too big, but they would work fine. I replaced them with my robe.
I hesitated a second, then pulled out a wad of cash—the getaway funds I always carried. I separated several bills and slipped them into the pocket of the robe. It would be bad enough getting out of the shower after the gym with nothing to change into. The cash was my way of softening the blow.
I took the elevator up to the main floor—no rushing, no hijacking this time. The doors glided open onto a lobby that gleamed under glittering chandeliers. It smelled of floor polish and lavender. I strolled across the marble floor, past potted palm trees and plush lounge chairs, eyes pinned on the revolving doors. I was almost clear.
At that moment, a couple entered the hotel lobby, emerging through the revolving doors: a middle-aged, blowsy woman in a bright orange, flouncy gown and a gentleman who looked like he’d been stuffed into his suit. I’m not sure whose face was more pinched and sour. I recognized them instantly as Mr. and Mrs. Peabody. They were returning from the opera.
I stepped out of their path as they strode into the hotel, oblivious to anyone else. A faint smile played on my face. In two more steps I was inside the revolving doors, spinning my way to freedom.
As I stepped into the cool night air, I knew I was clear. I walked farther, putting distance between myself and the hotel. Relief washed over me like surf on a beach.
But it didn’t last long. In spite of the success, I had a much bigger problem. I had put myself in a highly compromising position because of fear. Because of a terror I had allowed to control me. And that was not okay.
Paralyzing fear was a major liability for a thief. And it wasn’t particularly compatible with a life of crime.
I’d become spooked. I’d heard other thieves talk about this. But I’d never imagined it would happen to me.
So what was I going to do? I could barely execute the most straightforward of jobs. How would I fare doing something more complicated? And dangerous?
I kept walking, past glowing shop windows and banks with their locked-down entrances. A cab honked somewhere behind me, and a crosswalk sign uttered its chipper bleep.
No need to overreact, Cat. Surely it was just a passing phase. Maybe I just needed a little time. A short break.
I nodded. Fine. That was what I’d do. I would talk to my handler, Templeton, and tell him I needed a brief hiatus—some time to rest and clear my head. No heists, no jobs for a short while. A few weeks should do it. Enjoy a nice, easy life for a bit, specifically with no life-threatening scenarios. I’d be ready to come back to work after that.
I stood at a corner, waiting for the crosswalk light to turn. A cool breeze kicked up; it smelled of rain. A storm was coming.
And then someone gripped my upper left arm with a hold as tight as a pit bull’s jaws. Someone else grabbed my right. The hands belonged to two men the approximate size of Kodiak bears.
“Cat Montgomery,” the one on my right said in my ear, his voice low and threatening. “We need you to come with us.”
Chapter 3
Panic flooded over me, and alarm bells clanged in my ears. Had I been less distracted, I might have been quicker with an evasive maneuver. But it was too late for that—these men had grips of iron. There was nowhere for me to go.
As they marched me quickly down a side street, I clenched my teeth, mostly with anger at myself for not being on my guard immediately after a job. I looked sideways at them. These guys did not look like cops. Were not acting like cops.
I needed to get out of here. I didn’t know who these men were, and I didn’t want to know.
Then, before I could do anything, a black Lexus limousine pulled up to the c
urb.
This might be my only chance to get away. The one thing I had to my advantage was that people usually underestimated me. Especially men. Especially steroid monster-type men. I began to execute a Krav Maga escape maneuver to break free—and found my move immediately anticipated, eliciting a counter-maneuver from the man on my left.
I barely had a second to register shock at this as the door to the Lexus flung open and I was roughly stuffed into the backseat.
This was bad.
I struggled upright. A man sat opposite me, and the two thugs lowered themselves in on either side of me. My every nerve screamed at the entrapment, but I stayed quiet, rapidly making calculations and observations. The interior was lined with buff-colored leather, and there was a lit crystal bar at one end. The air smelled of cigars and single malt.
The limo began to move, gliding quietly away from the curb. I quickly glanced out the window; to stay oriented, I needed to keep track of the direction we were headed in.
I turned my attention to the barrel-chested man sitting opposite me. He looked to be in his late sixties. His watch, a Patek Philippe, was worth more than my condo. He watched me coldly from behind gold-rimmed glasses. The downturned, taut set of his mouth betrayed a misanthropic son of a bitch.
I looked closer at his face, and recognition clicked.
Icy cold water poured down my spine. I was in trouble. Very big trouble.
Albert Faulkner III had been the victim two years ago of a high-profile theft: the Caesar Diamond. The jewel was a sixty-four-carat, cognac-colored stone, one of the largest in private ownership. It had been ripped from the famous Kimberley mine in South Africa in 1982, cut into a cushion shape, and sold at auction for six hundred thousand dollars. It was considered a deal at the time—brown diamonds were not as fashionable then as they are now. In today’s market, its value would be much more than that. The Caesar had been the pride of Faulkner’s substantial collection.
Until two years ago, that is, when it was stolen from his private safe in Palm Springs, California. The perpetrator was never caught.
Faulkner had been quite public about the fact that if he ever caught the thief, he would have his revenge. His threats were highly unpleasant but rather creative, with a . . . shall we say, medieval flavor. Fortunately, he never discovered the identity of the bandit.
Until now, it would seem.
I tried to still my nerves, to not show visible shaking, as he leveled his viper gaze at me.
“Miss Catherine Montgomery. We have some business to attend to, you and I.”
“Oh?”
“I believe you took something of mine.”
My stomach curdled. I needed a way out of this vehicle. “What do you mean?” I decided to stall. Stalling was always a safe tactic.
Faulkner gave an infinitesimal nod. In a heartbeat, the thug on my left grabbed me by my throat and gripped firmly. Panic bounced inside my skull as crushing pain seared into my throat from his grip. I raked at his hand. I couldn’t move it.
“Miss Montgomery, perhaps you don’t realize this, but I do have other business to attend to besides yours. So cut the shit,” Faulkner hissed.
“Okay,” I choked out.
The thug released me. I breathed hungrily and rubbed my bruised throat.
Memo to self:
Stalling can, in fact, be a very poor choice in certain circumstances.
I realized the only way to get out of this car alive was to play along, play nice. My next move was straight-up honesty.
“You’re talking about the Caesar Diamond,” I said.
“Very good, Catherine. Now we’re going to get somewhere.”
“It was nothing personal. It was just my assignment.” I tried to strike an innocent lamb expression. This also happened to be the truth. I worked for an organization—AB&T, the Agency of Burglary & Theft—as one of their roster of professional thieves. They assigned us heists whenever they were hired by an outside client in need of a job done. Much like an advertising agency, but with a little less pinstriping.
“Oh, yes. I’m sure it was just your assignment,” Faulkner said. “Nonetheless, you were the one responsible. And you cost me dearly.”
I frowned for a minute, thinking. “But didn’t your insurance cover the theft?” The idea that I’d done a job that violated one of my rules made me very uncomfortable.
You see, I have three policies, my Thief’s Credo.
Never steal from anyone who would go hungry.
Never steal anything that’s not insured.
Never steal frivolously.
Stealing was my job. But I decided long ago that this didn’t give me a license for bad behavior in the rest of my life.
Faulkner looked at me with impatience. “Yes, of course my insurance covered it. That’s not the point. I lost something special. Something no amount of money can replace. And now I want it back.”
I studied Faulkner carefully. There was something heartfelt in what he was saying. Two years ago, when I’d been casing his home and planning the Caesar theft, I did some background research. I had encountered stories about Albert Faulkner III. His family had been wealthy and powerful before the stock market crash in 1929. But that was fifteen years before Faulkner was born. He had grown up the hungry youngest child in a house full of kids who remembered what life was like before, and with a father embittered by the loss of wealth, status, everything. They had been raised to fight for everything they had lost, taught to claw and battle back to the top, trained to possess and hold on to every scrap that was their own.
I sat silently, not sure what he wanted me to say at this point. I actually sympathized with his plight. But did he really expect me to hunt down the Caesar and steal it back for him?
I didn’t have to come up with any sort of response, however, because he kept talking. “Trouble is,” he said, “I’ve had my people look into it. And here’s the tricky bit. There is no Caesar anymore. It was broken up into three pieces and sold off. The pieces are scattered all over the place now.”
I winced at the very idea. It was repellent. How could they do it? The Caesar had been spectacular. I remembered holding it in my hand, admiring the fire that smoldered inside the ice. How could they break up such a rare gem? At the same time, I knew why it had been done. The Caesar was such a recognizable diamond, even though it was worth more as a whole stone, intact it was, essentially, worthless. You wouldn’t be able to sell it, wouldn’t be able to move it. The only way to gain financially from stealing the Caesar would be to break it up and sell off what would still be decently large diamonds.
But where did all this leave me?
“So . . . you want me to, um, retrieve the pieces for you?” I said, guessing.
His mouth twisted, and he laughed scornfully. “No. Those pieces are meaningless now. The Caesar was special to me, but it’s gone.”
I found myself of the same opinion as Faulkner. But if he didn’t want me to steal the pieces, why had I been brought here? My skills were of no use to him.
My skin cooled. Perhaps he just wanted revenge. I had an image of my throat cut, my body dumped in a ditch somewhere. I shuddered. I had to get out of this car.
I gripped the leather seat and tried to slow my breathing. I couldn’t have a panic attack in this car. I needed to keep a clear head. My glance flicked to the doors again. No handles.
“It’s not about the money,” Faulkner was saying. “I want the jewel. But I can’t have my precious Caesar back. So here’s what we’re going to do. Since you’re so clever at stealing things, I want you to get this for me.”
The thug on my right handed me a newspaper clipping.
I held the smooth paper and stared at a black-and-white picture of a diamond. A full-page article spread beneath it. INFAMOUS CURSED DIAMOND BLAMED FOR DEATH AND DISASTER THROUGHOUT THE AGES read the headline. I didn’t need to read the article to identify the diamond.
It was the Hope Diamond.
I choked again—not from a thu
g’s hand gripped about my throat this time, but from pure disbelief.
“What? The Hope? It’s impossible,” I sputtered. I studied Faulkner’s face. Was he serious? “The Smithsonian is a fortress. Nobody has ever stolen anything from the Smithsonian.”
“Read closer, my dear. The Hope is taking a little vacation from the Smithsonian. I know you can get it for me then.”
I looked down at the page. The paper crinkled in my hand as I scanned the article.
The Hope Diamond is scheduled to be loaned out on a rare tour. The legendary gem has not left the Smithsonian since 1996, when it was sent to Harry Winston, Inc., in New York for cleaning. The last time the Hope traveled overseas was in 1965, when it journeyed to Johannesburg, South Africa, on loan to De Beers for the Rand Easter Show. “We’re excited to announce that in ten days, the Hope Diamond will be winging its way to Paris,” said Madeleine York, Director of the National Museum of Natural History, “to be the centerpiece of a special exhibit dedicated to Marie Antoinette at the Louvre.”
The Louvre? If I wasn’t so terrified, I might have laughed. The Louvre was even more ridiculous than the Smithsonian. Sure, people had successfully taken things from the Louvre in the past, in contrast to the Smithsonian. But after the Louvre had been embarrassed by the truly sloppy—but, nonetheless, successful—theft of eighteenth-century silver candlesticks in 2002, they had totally overhauled their security. And then, last year, they’d upgraded everything again. The Louvre would be impossible now.
Although, maybe there were chinks. New systems often contained bugs, little quirks they hadn’t quite ironed out. Moreover, visiting displays with temporary security systems were often more vulnerable than the permanent, well-seasoned installations in a museum. There was a good chance there would be gaps and cracks. The sort of things an enterprising young crook like myself could take advantage of.
In spite of myself, I felt a glimmer of excitement, a ripple of possibility. My fingers twitched.
