A Beautiful Heist

by Kim Foster

  “No,” Jack blurted. “Not Cat. Keep her out of it.” She was in enough danger as it was, already having worked for Sandor. If she now became tangled in a double-cross operation? Cold fear touched Jack’s bones. He had an impulse to rush out and sweep her away somewhere safe.

  “Impossible, Jack,” Cole said.

  “Listen, I’ll do whatever you need.”

  “Jack, you’re not a thief. The job is too difficult. Fact is, we probably should have involved Cat Montgomery right from the beginning. But we can learn from our mistake.”

  Wesley leaned forward. “We know where the Fabergé is—more or less. It’s being kept somewhere in the underground caverns of the masquerade ball house. Until they can smuggle it out of the country, Sandor is not letting it out of his sight.”

  Then Jack got an idea. “He will, if it’s to meet me.”

  “What?” Wesley said.

  Jack was thinking fast. “I’ll go and talk to Sandor myself. They won’t be able to resist my request for a meeting. They must know who my father was. So during that distraction, you”—he looked at Wesley—“can get the Egg.”

  “Jack, that’s crazy,” Wesley protested. “You’ll be a sacrificial lamb.”

  He shook his head. “They won’t hurt me, I’ll be fine.” Jack was not at all certain, but he didn’t have a lot of choice.

  Cole, who had been silent, nodded his head. “I like the idea,” he said. “Let’s do it. But it can be Wesley and Cat who get the Egg while you’re doing the distracting.”

  “No,” Jack said firmly. “No deal. I only do it if Cat is out.”

  Cole sat back and rubbed his chin, mulling it over. “Okay. It’s a deal, Jack.”

  Jack and Wesley left together. As they strode through Delridge’s shifty alleys and shadowy streets, Wesley said, “That was quite an act of chivalry, Barlow.”

  Jack said nothing, but shrugged and shoved his hands in the pockets of his wool coat.

  “Although I’m not surprised,” Wesley continued.

  “If you have a point, you should get to it.”

  “It’s just obvious, that’s all.”

  Jack stopped and gave him a level look. “What are you talking about?” he said between clenched teeth.

  “Jack, give me a break. You’re still in love with her. Cat.”

  “Oh fuck off, Smith,” Jack spat. “That’s ridiculous. Cat and I could never be together again.” He turned and began striding away.

  Wesley shrugged and fell in step beside him. “Maybe,” he said. “But I didn’t say you were going to be together. I just said you still love her.”

  Jack stopped again and turned to look at Wesley, ready to tear another strip. He opened his mouth to say something, then hesitated.

  This conversation was still bothering Jack as he climbed the steps to the masquerade mansion. But he had more critical things to deal with now.

  Jack was quickly granted entrance to the house. He experienced flashbacks to the masquerade ball—the ice sculptures, the chamber music—as he was led by a butler to an enormous parlor. He was frisked for weapons and wires. Then, as he waited, he shifted back and forth. He tugged his collar to give a little breathing room. He knew that, in one minute, Wesley would be gaining access to the underground passages from the exterior hatch.

  “Jack Barlow,” said Sandor, striding into the room. Jack had only seen photographs of the man. It was unnerving, the apparent age of Sandor. He looked barely old enough to be shaving. But Jack was wary enough not to be disarmed by this appearance.

  Four other men slipped into the room behind Sandor, taking up positions by the door. They had no visible weapons. But Jack knew better.

  Sandor shook Jack’s hand and they both sat down in velvet-upholstered armchairs. The room was sumptuously decorated with long swags of silk curtains and hand-woven rugs covering the marble floor. Jack imagined Wesley, now, slipping along the stone corridors below, homing in on the target.

  “Well, Mr. Barlow, I must tell you I was surprised when I was advised that you wanted to meet with me,” Sandor said in a genteel voice. So that’s how he was going to play it, Jack thought. “Please don’t leave me in suspense any longer. What can I do for you?”

  “I don’t want to waste my time or yours,” Jack said. “So I’ll just get right to it. I know you have the Aurora Egg. And you know that I know. But the fact is, I’m here because I want to join you.”

  Sandor did not immediately respond. But his eyelids lowered a little, his expression turned fractionally more dangerous as he waited for Jack to continue.

  “I want to be involved in what happens next with the Fabergé,” Jack said.

  Sandor watched him carefully. He tapped his front teeth with a fingernail. “And what makes you think I’ll believe this little piece of fiction?”

  Jack shrugged. “Quite simply, I like to be on the winning team.” Jack’s breathing was fast and shallow now and he forced himself to not move his eyes to the men standing by the door. His mind spun away to Wesley, down below. Was he encountering obstacles? Sandor’s core guards were here in this room, which he hoped meant the chambers below had been left minimally attended. “My father taught me a lot about the Gifts of the Magi,” Jack continued. “And it seems apparent to me that the Caliga are the ones to take it to the next step.”

  Was Sandor buying it? Jack couldn’t be sure. He searched the man’s face for clues.

  Jack continued speaking when Sandor said nothing. “I’m concerned, however, about your loose threads. People who know about this project but are walking around freely.” This was his riskiest statement. But he had to know what their plans were.

  “Such as?”

  “Cat Montgomery”

  Sandor nodded. “Yes, our original plan had been to eliminate her—but I was ... interrupted.” Jack’s mouth went dry. But—at least Sandor was being candid with him. Sandor then shrugged. “There is no need for us to eliminate Cat Montgomery now, because she doesn’t know anything.”

  Jack nodded. Sandor’s eyes narrowed. “Now, this line of conversation reminds me of something,” Sandor said. “Ah yes. Wasn’t Miss Montgomery a girlfriend of yours?”

  Jack’s stomach tightened. “Yes. Emphasis on the was.”

  “And this line of questioning isn’t meant to protect her in some way?”

  “No, like I said, we’re no longer together. I’m with someone else now.”

  Sandor’s face turned unpleasant. “Now here I know you’re lying. I know that you ended your relationship with the FBI agent.”

  Jack struggled to conceal his surprise. How could Sandor know this? They had only broken up last night, at that damned restaurant opening. Jack had finally decided it had to end with Nicole, especially after that thing—whatever it was—with Cat in the cloakroom. But how could Sandor know about this? His sources were good. Frighteningly so.

  Maybe this was a bad idea. Jack flicked a glance at his watch and wondered how much longer Wesley would be. How long could he keep this up?

  At that moment an intruder alarm sounded, piercing the air with sirens. The parlor door flung open and a woman darted in. “Sir—someone is in the vault.” Two of the four henchmen immediately rushed from the room.

  Sandor’s eyes sprang open. His head spun to face Jack. “How stupid do you think I am?” Sandor snarled.

  Jack’s heart seized. He had to get out of there. Now.

  The billiards hall cracked with the sound of a break shot; Ethan straightened from his position over the pool table, scrutinizing the results of his shot as billiard balls rolled and clicked across the green felt.

  “Ethan, I need your help,” I said, standing beside him, shifting between my feet.

  Ethan picked up his lowball drink from the edge of the table. The sleeves of his crisp button-down shirt were rolled up to the elbows. Ice cubes clicked as he took a sip. Then he smiled. “Well, I like the sound of that. What’s up, Montgomery?”

  Before I could speak, he offered me his poo
l cue and indicated the table. “Want in? We could play for something interesting—”

  I shook my head vigorously. “No, Ethan, I really don’t have time. This is important....”

  I glanced around. The billiards hall was scantily inhabited this morning: a smattering of retired men in golf shirts, and a pair of university students in the corner, drinking beer, clearly recovering from the night before.

  “Listen,” I said, “you know the job you helped me with, when we broke into York Security?”

  “Of course,” he said, strolling to the other side of the table and lining up his next shot.

  “Well, I think I need some help. Things are ... a lot more complicated than I thought. I thought I could handle this by myself. But I was wrong.”

  He watched me carefully and rolled the pool cue between his hands. “Tell me, Montgomery. I’m all ears.”

  Over the background sounds of clacking billiard balls and the occasional triumphant cheer from distant tables, I told Ethan all about the Fabergé job. I told him everything I knew about Sandor. And how I knew, now, that Sandor wasn’t actually a Romanov descendant.

  “Ah, that’s what you were freaking out about in the art gallery,” he said, understanding dawning on his face.

  I nodded. Then I told him what I’d seen in the masquerade mansion.

  He froze, midshot, as I described the monks’ murder. He straightened, face darkening.

  “Do you have any idea who these people might really be?” I asked him, nibbling a fingernail.

  Ethan picked up his glass and slid onto a bar stool beside the pool table. He thought about it for a while. “I can’t be sure, obviously. But I know who this sounds like. Have you heard of a group called the Caliga Rapio?”

  My eyes opened wide. “That’s real? I thought it was just an urban myth.”

  “Most people would say people like you are an urban myth.”

  “Good point,” I said, nodding. “So tell me. What’s the truth?”

  “The Caliga are extremely secretive. But we know a few things.” Ethan began describing an international, underground circle of criminals. But the sort that operated without conscience, and without a code. According to rumor, they’d even lost the old skills, the art of burglary. What was worse, they were the kind who did not hesitate to kill people in their way.

  Sandor’s face blazed in my mind, cold and detached, stepping around the dead bodies of the monks. I shivered.

  “How long have they been around?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. But from what I’ve heard, a long time.” Ethan stared into his drink, swirling the ice cubes. “You know what I think you should do?” he continued. I waited expectantly. “I think you should stay out of it. You were involved, and now you’re not. I say just drop it. Forget you ever knew about it.”

  I nodded. It sounded like good advice. There was just one problem.

  “I can’t do that,” I said. “The Aurora is clearly more than just another Fabergé Egg. There’s something special about it. I just don’t know what. They’ve obviously got unpleasant plans for it.” I paused and looked down, rotating the ring on my finger. “I took this job because I thought I was correcting something that had happened in the past. I thought I was returning a Fabergé Egg to its original family. But I was tricked, and used. Instead of feeling better now, I actually feel worse. I’m not sure I can live with that. And to be honest, Ethan, I don’t need any more regrets.”

  Jack gave Sandor a swift, mighty kick in the chest, knocking the smaller man down. He hurled a chair—his only weapon—at the henchmen pulling their guns.

  The chair flew through the air and both men scattered. One crashed into a glass coffee table, smashing it. Shards of glass flew everywhere. Jack grabbed a fractured table leg and sprinted for the door, smashing the knees of the henchman standing in his way. He had to get out of this house. As he ran, his hip slammed into a chair and his shoulder thudded into the door frame, but he kept going. He heard a bullet ping into the joinery around the door, splintering wood. Then the crash of more breaking glass as bullets plowed into a nearby mirror. Sandor was not a good shot.

  Jack’s vision narrowed to a mine shaft. His heart beat at an uncountable rate. It would be sheer luck if he got out of here without being shot. His muscles strained as he sprinted through the hallway toward the front entrance. There were shouts and thundering footsteps right behind him.

  Panicky questions crowded into his head: Where was Wesley? Was he alive? Did he have the Egg?

  He had to stick to the plan. Wesley had his own getaway route and they had agreed that it would be every man for himself if something went wrong.

  He reached the main foyer where a butler stood, startled and frozen in the path of the locomotive. Jack shoved him aside and lunged for the front door, keeping low. Another bullet zinged by his head, then one smashed into a vase standing beside the door. The vase exploded in ceramic fireworks. A jagged fragment flew up and caught Jack just above the eye.

  Jack flung open the front door and hurled himself out into the morning light, thrilled to be still gulping air. The sun was bursting over the horizon now. A flock of birds flew up from a nearby tree in alarm at the sudden sounds emerging from the house.

  Jack lunged desperately for his car—why the hell hadn’t he parked closer?—and ripped open the closest door, the passenger’s side, when he reached it. He dove straight in. At least he had the sense to leave the keys in the ignition for a fast getaway. He threw the car into gear. A bullet smashed the rear window into a glass spiderweb. Jack peeled away, the tires squealing on the driveway. His rear end fishtailed and the side of the car scraped along the iron gate as he burst through it, and onto the road.

  Jack sat on the cold edge of his bathtub, wiping blood from the laceration above his eye and holding a pack of ice to his lower lip. He was back at home. He turned on the fan to clear the rubbing alcohol smell. His cuts stung and he felt the dull ache of bruised muscles.

  A minute ago he’d received a message from Wesley: he was fine, he’d escaped, but he hadn’t been able to get the Egg.

  Well, at least this way Jack knew the Caliga wouldn’t come hunting him down. If they still had the Fabergé they would be concentrating their efforts on getting out of the country. They wouldn’t bother coming after him now. Or so he hoped, anyway.

  Jack had placed a call: the airports would be on the lookout for Caliga members, using the descriptions he’d faxed. But Jack knew that wouldn’t prevent their escape. The Caliga would use private jets and private airports. If there was more time or if this were an official criminal case, he could do something about those, too. But there was nothing official about this. And Jack couldn’t make a case of it without having to explain things he was not willing to explain.

  Jack opened the medicine cabinet to look for some aspirin and a Band-Aid. He turned the aspirin bottle upside down in his hand. Empty. He shoved aside a crusted bottle of Pepto-Bismol to get the Band-Aids behind. He grabbed it and stared at the box. The Band-Aids were cotton-candy pink. Cartooned with miniature martini glasses.

  Jack stood there holding the package. They were Cat’s Band-Aids. He looked up at his reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror. His face was bruised and cut. He’d removed his shirt; an ugly purple swelling was developing on his right shoulder.

  All of this, every wound and abrasion, had been sustained to protect Cat. To keep her out of the fray. Wesley’s words echoed in his mind: quite an act of chivalry, Jack.

  Was it just chivalry? Was he simply doing the decent thing? Or was it something more? Jack had protected a crook. How had things become so twisted? He was FBI. His job was not about protecting crooks.

  He studied his reflection. The truth was, he no longer saw things in black and white anymore. The world was not divided between crooks and noncrooks. The world was in various shades of gray for him now. When had that happened?

  The man he was looking at in the mirror was no longer the same man who’d disowned hi
s father. Jack felt a knife-twist of guilt. His father had died alone, with a broken heart. Was that why Jack had been compelled to join the Fabergé hunt? So he could forgive—not his father, for being a crook, but himself, for breaking his father’s heart?

  He sat back down on the bathtub’s edge, still holding the small box of pink Band-Aids. He stared at the hand clutching the box. The bruises and scrapes there, the aching in his shoulders—all of it was evidence of his feelings for Cat.

  Images of Cat flashed in his mind: the concentration on her face as she cracked the safe on the train, her ridiculous performance at the golf tournament. Jack smiled at that one. Cat was spirited, brave, and resourceful. She was a firecracker; she was a tempest at sea.

  It would be easier to be in love with Nicole and be happy. But life wasn’t about choosing the easy path. And, more than that—falling in love wasn’t a voluntary, logical decision. At that moment, he realized leaving Cat had been a huge mistake. Because he knew, now, that his heart belonged to her.

  A single question remained: was he too late?

  Chapter 32

  When I arrived home after meeting with Ethan there was an urgent message from Lucas on my encrypted voice mail. I called the lab and was put through on a secure line. On hold, I opened the fridge and scanned for something edible. I was starving.

  Lucas picked up just as I found a package of processed cheese, in which only two slices remained, and a three-quarters empty jar of marmalade. “Okay, we processed those samples you sent us, Cat.”

  Ah, the samples from the Egg. Excellent. I began unwrapping the cheese while Lucas continued.

  “I gotta tell you, we received some very intriguing results,” he said.

  “Oh?” I opened the freezer and frost spilled out. I peered through the clouds and came up with a crumpled box of Eggos with exactly one freezer-burned waffle inside.