by Kim Foster
I stared at her, surprised. “You envy me,” I said slowly.
She rolled her eyes. “Please, Cat. We both know the truth here. You’ve always been envious of me. Besides, who trained whom? Who turned you from a common pickpocket into a professional thief? Answer me this: when you’re doing a job, and in a tight spot, how often do you think: how would Brooke do this?”
I cringed. Because she was right.
“You know, I hope you’ll see someday that I’m actually doing you a favor,” she said.
“You’re completely delusional. What is your problem? Seriously”
“You should try asking yourself the same thing.”
“What are you talking about?”
She looked at me squarely. “Why do you do all this, Cat? Why do you continue in this line of work? You have a chance at a normal life. You could have an academic career, and you’ve got a man who would be with you in a heartbeat if you gave up your criminal tendencies. So I’m asking you: what’s your problem?”
I felt a slicing pain as that arrow hit too close to the mark. I gritted my teeth and told myself to ignore her. She was just trying to mess with my head.
Besides, I knew exactly why I couldn’t give it up, not just yet.
“I assume you know why you’re here,” said the man with the comb-over and the gaps between his Chiclets teeth. He was seated behind a large mahogany desk, tapping a pencil irritably. Mr. Frank was Templeton’s boss at the Agency, head of the HR Department. Templeton stood to Mr. Frank’s left, looking grim. To complete the triangle I sat in front of the desk, knees together, eyes lowered like an admonished teenager.
“Yes, sir,” I said.
I was in the principal’s office—but a thousand times worse. And, as a further distinction, surrounded by dental equipment. The waiting room was filled with catalogs and samples of drills and dentures and X-ray machines. AB&T headquarters was disguised as a dental supply company. That was our cover.
It was hot and stuffy in there; my palms felt slick and the backs of my knees were prickling. Of course I knew why I was in trouble. What I didn’t know was what they were going to do about it. My stomach corkscrewed.
“Part of your contract with AB&T,” Mr. Frank continued gravely, “is that you are not to take outside jobs. When people hire thieves independently that undermines the entire fabric of this agency. This is a business we’re running here.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s also a security issue. Every time you engage with an unscreened party, there could be risks.”
I knew all that, of course. I steeled myself for what was coming next. Mr. Frank paused, breathing loudly through his nose. “You’re an excellent thief, Miss Montgomery,” he said, clenching his jaw. “You have done some superb work for us.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Mr. Frank reclined in his chair and squinted his eyes into tight slits. I suspended my breathing. I waited for the blow to come. And, by the way, don’t expect a reference....
“In short,” he said, “we have decided to overlook this transgression.”
My jaw hung open. “What? You have?” I started to smile, but neither of them were smiling so I wrenched my face straight.
“This must absolutely never happen again,” Mr. Frank said. “I cannot stress this enough. Let’s be clear on the terms, shall we?”
I nodded rapidly. He held up a hand and counted off rules on his fingers. “No more assignments outside AB&T. No more freelance. No more interactions with these people—this Sandor—or anything to do with this Fabergé. Am I clear?”
“Yes, sir. I understand.”
My head felt light with disbelief. I was off the hook. There was only one way this could have happened: Templeton must have really gone to bat for me. I glanced at him. His expression was mixed. He was relieved, that was certain. But I could also see his disappointment in me. He couldn’t quite meet my eye.
I knew it would be a long time before he forgave me for deceiving AB&T—and him. So when I swore to them that it would never happen again, I really meant it. Firstly, because I knew there wouldn’t be any more chances. But mostly because there was no way I was going to betray Templeton again.
Absolutely no way.
Unfortunately, that very afternoon I realized, to my horror, that I was going to do exactly that.
It was a day of torrential rain and I was going with Ethan to an art gallery. I was expecting a reasonably pleasant couple of hours gazing at paintings while Ethan scoped out the security system for his next job.
I’d been a little hesitant when he’d first invited me. I hadn’t actually seen Ethan since our—ahem—night together at his apartment.
“Come on, Cat, it’ll be a great distraction for you,” he’d said earlier today, cajoling me to come along. “And I know you need a little of that.” He was well aware of my recent offense and near-firing from AB&T. I had been pretty hot gossip at Agency watercoolers.
The residual awkwardness when he’d first picked me up quickly dissolved, then we simply became two regular thieves out for a pleasant afternoon at an art gallery.
We entered the main foyer. A grand vaulted ceiling soared away from us, high above the intricate mosaic floor. Sounds echoed, cathedral-like. The poster in the foyer announced a visiting exhibit on Russian portraits.
Ethan turned to me. “Okay, I’m going to take stock of the camera locations and get a fix on their infrared system,” he said in a low voice. “You look around and enjoy yourself. Then we’ll get some lunch, okay? The gallery café is excellent.” He winked and walked away.
As I made my way to the Russian portraits I couldn’t help wondering why I was here with Ethan. The thought nagged at me and got tangled up in my brain like a loose thread in a washing machine. Was this a date? Did I even want it to be? I was attracted to Ethan, of course, but that begged the question: what was I doing in the cloakroom with Jack?
I had to forget Jack. Ethan—this was the guy I should have been with. Even on paper he was perfect: Cute, charming, criminal.
I passed beneath a marble archway and entered a small room with burgundy walls and parquet floor and carved golden frames. I strolled to one end and stood before a large portrait of a man, a royal portrait it seemed, based on the uniform, the decoration, the imperial pose. I should admire the brushwork, I thought. Not that I knew anything about brushwork, but that shouldn’t stop me from admiring it, should it? I peered closer, gazing at the portrait’s face.
Every molecule inside me froze, instantly. My eyes darted down, panicking, to read the brass plaque on the frame. Oh no. No, no, no. This couldn’t be happening.
And just like that, I knew that I was going to have to do the exact thing I just promised AB&T, and Templeton, that I wouldn’t. The plaque read: CZAR NICHOLAS II: 1915. It was a portrait of the last monarch of the House of Romanov.
Who just so happened to be a dead ringer for Gorlovich, the owner of the Starlight Casino. I could see it in the slant of his eyes, the high forehead, the angle of his cheekbones. Gorlovich, the former possessor of the Aurora Egg, and recent victim of a major theft. I stared hard at the painting, desperate to see Sandor’s features in the face. But there was nothing. No resemblance whatsoever. Someone had pulled the bath plug, and I was being sucked down as everything I’d believed drained away. There was only one obvious explanation here: I’d been tricked.
Chapter 30
The Gorlovich family were the rightful owners of the Aurora Egg. That was the only explanation that made sense. They were the Romanov descendants, not Sandor and his group. And the truth of what I’d just done? I hadn’t stolen the Egg back for the good guys. I’d just stolen it. Outright.
I quickly found Ethan. “I have to go,” I said abruptly. My teeth were gnashing at the thought of being used so brazenly. I savagely twisted the ring on my finger. One of my reasons for taking this job had been to correct an old wrong. But I hadn’t corrected a thing. In fact I’d made it all so much worse. I felt sick wi
th betrayal. But before I started tearing the city apart, I needed to confirm this somehow.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, staring at me with concern. “You look angry ... or something....”
“I—I have to go sort something out. Right now. Sorry,” I said, and dashed from the gallery.
I flew home and immediately locked myself in my secret room. I flung open drawers and threw papers off shelves and finally found the envelope that my gloves had arrived in. The one that held the report on Gorlovich’s hair specimen that I’d tossed aside without reading. I gripped onto the report, and read it.
Specimen: Hair.
Duplication Protocol: PCR
DNA Analysis & Identification: Identity confirmed to be Alexei Mikhail Nicholas Romanov, male, born 1968.
I crumpled the paper and slammed it onto my desk. God, I couldn’t believe it. I’d been completely and entirely duped. I dug my fingers into my hair and pulled at the roots.
Damn it. The people I’d thought were the good guys were actually the bad. And here I thought I was doing something honorable. But in spite of all that, I ended up being the bad guy after all. In trying to fix the past I only managed to make it worse. I wiped at an angry tear and then stopped, frowning. Why was this affecting me so much?
And then I wondered—was this why I hadn’t felt any different after handing the Fabergé to Sandor? Because I hadn’t truly righted anything, in a universal sense?
I shook my head and tried to rattle the pieces back in place. Several questions pushed forward. For one thing, if not a Romanov, who the hell was Sandor? Who were all his people? Why go through such an elaborate ruse to steal a single piece?
The most important question, though, elbowed its way forward in my consciousness: what was I prepared to do about it?
Two hours later I was hiding in the darkness, deep within the labyrinth of rooms beneath the masquerade mansion. I’d tucked myself into an antique wardrobe that held old clothing and linens and I was trying to breathe through the odor of musty fabric and mothballs.
I’d had a vague, unformed plan to break in here and hunt for information. But within minutes of arriving in the old stone conference room I’d heard voices approaching from the corridor just outside. So I hid—flinging myself into the nearest place, which turned out to be this dusty old wardrobe—and held my breath, waiting to see who would appear in my sight lines. I was sweating with the desperate hope that I wouldn’t sneeze.
Of course I now had to admit that my friends had been right. I’d consulted them before coming here. And they, in the nicest possible way, had told me I was insane.
“So, explain this again, Cat, because I don’t get it,” Mel said. “Why do you need to return the Aurora Egg to the original family? You’ve stolen loads of things from original owners.”
We were at her apartment. After reading the DNA report, I’d gone directly to Mel’s place. Sophie had arrived shortly thereafter.
“I know. But I don’t like being deceived and tricked,” I said. “I was used.”
“So it’s an ego thing?”
“No . . . not exactly . . .” I said, searching for the right words. “It’s more like, what I did . . . is just not right. I thought I could fix an old wrong. Fix the past.”
“Cat, you can’t fix the past,” Mel said.
“Yes, you can. Sometimes you can.”
“Cat? No you can’t,” Mel said firmly. “You have to let the past go. You have to move forward. This is your life.” She sighed and her face softened then. She came and sat next to me on the sofa. “Learning from past mistakes is one thing, but a person can become consumed by it. An obsessive quest for atonement can only lead to one thing: self-destruction.”
There was silence. And then Sophie said, “We—we’re not talking about the Fabergé Egg anymore, are we?”
I looked away, out the window.
“It’s too dangerous, Cat. Just take care of yourself,” Mel said.
“And what about Templeton? You’ll be betraying him again,” Sophie said.
Everything they’d said was true. But this thing had grabbed on to me and refused to let go. So here I was, in the wardrobe.
I waited, slowing my breathing. Then, I heard the door open and shadows moved across my line of sight. Somebody began lighting wall sconces; I could smell burning candle wax and the sulfur of the matches. Despite the flickering light, I couldn’t see very well, so I opened the wardrobe door a crack further, heart pounding. I made out Sandor, and other faces I recognized from previous meetings: Hugo, Mikhail, Gilda. And then two other men came into view: the monks. They remained standing at the end of the table.
“Well? What do you want?” Sandor said to the monks. His voice sounded different. Sharper and pointed, like an ice pick. He even looked different to me then—harder, older, and more unpleasant. Was it my imagination, now I knew he was a liar?
“We know you have the Aurora Egg,” said the handsome, Latin-looking monk, his voice shaky and cutting off at the end in a nervous, involuntary stop. His temples, beaded with sweat, glistened in the candlelight. “We’re offering to purchase it from you.”
Sandor looked indifferent. “I’m listening,” he said.
“We’re prepared to offer you six point three million dollars.”
My eyes sprang wide. Sandor stared at the monks without reaction. “That is not an acceptable offer,” he said. The monks protested and blustered.
Sandor held up a hand to stop them. “You know, I find myself wondering something. Why would the church be so interested in a simple, albeit beautiful, piece of Russian decorative art?” He stood and began to walk the length of the table, growing slowly closer to the monks. The tall monk took a step backward. “Now, you’ve come to me before. And judging from your persistence, I would say the church is very interested. But I’m curious what it is, exactly, that has you so intrigued.”
Yes, I thought. That is a good question. Let’s hear the answer to that. But the monks said nothing. The tall one had developed a bright, blotchy flush up his neck.
“Now. How stupid do you think I am?” Sandor said. His lips curled back into a nasty, toothy smile.
The monks blanched. “Listen, we know what you have planned with the Aurora,” the handsome one said, glancing at his partner. “And we’re here to beg you not to do it. It’s monstrous.”
Sandor folded his arms; he looked unmoved. The monks conferred, whispering urgently. “All right,” said the tall one. “We’re prepared to offer you double our first amount.”
I tried not to choke. Sandor looked bored. He sighed and then glanced—just the slightest flicker of a look—at Hugo on his left.
Two deafening gunshots rang out as Hugo shot both monks, point-blank, in the head. The monks crumpled to the ground and lay there, unmoving, in blooming pools of blood.
My vision narrowed to a tunnel and I could hear blood thundering in my ears. It took every ounce of self-control to not scream out. I tore my eyes away from the monks’ bodies and watched as Sandor and his group prepared to depart, briskly gathering papers. I was breathing so loudly I was sure they’d be able to hear me, hidden, so vulnerable in this wardrobe. An icy chill curled around my throat. I forced myself to focus on what was being said.
Sandor ordered his men to pack everything. “We’re leaving for London first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, sir,” one of the men replied.
“Has our prism landed in London yet?” Sandor asked.
“It appears so,” Gilda said, flipping through a file.
Sandor’s lips curled back. “I don’t want appearances. I want confirmation.”
They might as well have been speaking in Sanskrit—what were they talking about? Prism? It was all a blur. “Is someone going to clean this up?” Sandor demanded, waving a hand vaguely in the direction of the monks’ bodies. He exited the room.
Two large men bundled up the bodies in heavy plastic with frightening efficiency. The wall sconces were extinguished an
d the room emptied, leaving me alone again in the darkness, trembling. But there was something bigger than fear for me, now. And that was the knowledge that, more than ever, it was going to be impossible to let this go.
But one lucid thought pushed through: I was going to need some help.
Chapter 31
The sky was painted the cold blue gray of dawn. Streetlights glowed their sodium vapor, not yet acknowledging the coming day. Jack parked his car in front of the masquerade mansion and climbed out. Sandor had agreed to the meeting, but he’d said it had to be early. He had a flight to catch.
I bet you do, Jack thought. Jack knew Sandor had the Fabergé Egg now, and would be planning his next steps without delay.
The curved driveway glistened darkly—it had rained last night. The air was crisp and fresh from it. Dawn was a time of duels, Jack thought. Of foggy moors, first light, the smell of gunpowder.
What the hell was he doing here?
It had been his idea, of course, so he had no one to blame but himself. The day after his cloakroom incident with Cat—what a mistake that was—he’d gone to Wesley and Oliver Cole. He’d met them at the private room in the restaurant in Delridge neighborhood, the place of their first meeting. He told them that Cat had denied any involvement in the Fabergé theft. And that he believed her.
They’d listened. And then they’d promptly advised him that he was wrong.
“Cat Montgomery is the confirmed thief on this job,” Cole said, reclining in his smooth leather armchair. “Her agency superiors just disciplined her for the conflict of interest. We have corroborating information to back this up.”
Jack stood before them both, arms crossed. He silently cursed Cat for turning him into a fool. And then, the gnawing worry began again.
“So what next?” he asked.
“We’re going to contact Montgomery,” Cole said, drawing on his cigar. “We’re going to recruit her to help us go in and retrieve the Egg from the Caliga. She’s done it once, she can do it again. She’s got insider knowledge of how they operate, presumably.”
