“Please take the first card for yourself,” Harry said, letting his best announcer’s voice boom through the tent as he stepped back onto the stage. “And pass the deck around. Ladies and gentlemen, each of you should take a single card from the deck.
“I will now present you with a new illusion. One that has never been seen before by mortal eyes!” he declared. There was no lie there — this was a trick that he had never even thought of before tonight. He walked to the center of the room and stood under the gas lamp. A successful magician would have drums and an orchestra to build the tension, but Harry only had the pounding of his heart against his rib cage.
“Examine your cards closely,” he announced. “Look around — each of you has a different card. Now hold your card in the air, but hold it tightly.” The audience complied, including an amused Zoltan. “I will turn out the light, and when I turn it back on, every one of you will have the exact same card,” Harry announced.
He reached up to the lamp and turned the key, plunging the tent into darkness. Some of the ladies gasped, covering Harry’s stealthy footsteps.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” he declared loudly.
“Brace yourselves!” he reached the door, and began shaking the tentpoles.
“Prepare yourselves!” he boomed.
“I’m very sorry!” he shouted as he successfully pulled the tentpoles out, stepped through the door, and let the tent entrance collapse behind him as the audience screamed in shock.
It was a simple trick, really. Distract the audience with a big promise, turn out the lights . . . and then collapse the tent on them and run like the wind.
Harry broke into a sprint as he rounded the corner. The audience in the tent was yelling, but with a glance back, he confirmed that only part of the tent had collapsed. No one would be hurt.
No one but him. And, he realized with a sinking feeling, his family as well. Harry glanced back again. Zoltan and his crew had somehow made it out of the tent and were running after him.
They were fast, but Harry knew he was faster. He could put on a burst of speed and outrun them. But what was the point? He could run as far or as fast as he wanted, but the Vespers would find him. They were too connected. Too powerful. Too ruthless.
Harry knew the implicit threat that every criminal kingpin held over the more or less honest people that he preyed on. “Cross me, and I’ll kill you. Run away, and I’ll kill your family.” Glancing back, he could see it written on Zoltan’s face. Harry could run away and hide forever — but he couldn’t hide his sick father. He couldn’t hide his younger brothers and his little sister.
Harry stopped and turned around, letting the three Vespers catch up to him. He could see the fury on Zoltan’s face, now modified with slight confusion.
Harry stood tall, facing the men, and held up his hands in surrender.
“Take me,” Harry said. “I know it’s over.”
Istvan and Bjorn slowed, but Zoltan kept coming and lowered his shoulder. He slammed into Harry, knocking the wind out of him.
Harry’s vision went blank for a moment and he collapsed to the ground. His lungs burned as he strained for air. Harry gasped, but the breath just didn’t seem to come.
“You don’t get to negotiate with us,” Zoltan said from above him. His two companions’ laughter mingled with the roar of white noise in Harry’s ears as he struggled for air.
For a moment, Harry was sure he would die, but ever so slowly his breath came back. Harry looked up at the three heads clustered above him, framed by the lights of the fairgrounds and the dim stars above that. No one would stop to question them. As far as Coney Island was concerned, large criminals had a right to beat up short boys. It wasn’t worth risking their necks to interfere.
“Kill me,” Harry croaked. “Only please, please, leave them alone.”
Zoltan was unmoved. “You died last week when we threw you into the river. I even sent a telegram to Vesper One, telling him to add your drowning to my tally. I will not be made a liar.” For that one moment, Harry thought he saw a flicker of concern in Zoltan’s eyes. But then it was gone, and the ruthless killer was back. “Since the moment your feet hit the water, you’ve been living on borrowed time.”
Harry closed his eyes. His escape had been for nothing. They were still going to kill him. They were still going to destroy his family. “But that’s not how it has to be,” Zoltan added. “You could be resurrected, if you do what needs to be done. How would you like to be alive again?”
Harry stared at Zoltan, unsure whether or not the man was playing a game with him. “What are you talking about?” he wheezed, still struggling to catch his breath after his sprint.
Zoltan inclined his head so he was looking straight into Harry’s eyes. “You are a talented boy, even if you are a nosy piece of tenement trash. Your magician’s tricks are not real artistry, but they have a certain utility.” Harry bristled but remained silent. The more time this twisted criminal spent taunting him, the less time he’d have to torture Harry’s family. “I need you to acquire an object for me. You’ll break into the specified location, use your special talents to escape, and then bring me the item the day after tomorrow. I’ll be waiting on the docks with a special crate to transport it back to Europe.”
Zoltan leaned even closer. “If you succeed, I will forgive your family’s debt and leave your father in peace. If you fail, you will be arrested and sent to prison for a long time. But don’t expect anyone to visit you there — if you fail, I’ll make sure each member of your family dies a unique and memorable death.”
The Vesper rose, standing with the expansive performer’s posture that Harry had worked so hard to imitate. “So do we have a deal?”
Harry didn’t hesitate. He knew his parents would be horrified if they learned that he’d allowed the Vespers to pull him into their web of criminality and deceit, but there was no other choice.
“I’ll do it.”
Harry and Jacob shuffled through the crowd, doing their best to look like awestruck tourists. Given the unbelievable array of sculpture, pottery, and paintings around them, it wasn’t difficult. There were paintings taller than Harry, full of knights, angels, and noblewomen in vibrant colors. There was even a collection of daggers, swords, and armor with beautiful inlays. To Harry, the Metropolitan Museum of Art was like an elegant version of Coney Island, with all the drama and spectacle but none of the dirt, violence, and corruption. He and Jacob had worn their best clothes, but Harry still felt shabby next to the fine gentlemen and ladies taking the afternoon to stroll through the exhibits.
The museum was in an enormous brick building, topped with spires that made it look like a castle to Harry. And as large as it was, Harry had seen construction starting outside that looked like it would add entire new wings. Harry wished he could spend the day wandering through the museum. They’d even passed paintings by his famous ancestors, giving Harry a thrill that temporarily made him forget his nerves. But he had work to do — after memorizing the layout of the building, he had an even more important task: locating the object the Vespers wanted him to steal.
On their way in, Jacob had purchased a map of the collections. Harry pretended to be confused, frequently pulling the map open and looking around in every direction. In reality, he was committing the entire map to memory. According to Zoltan, the plan called for him to be wheeled in during a fake delivery, and he couldn’t know for sure where he would end up. He needed to be able to find his target from anywhere in the museum.
“Unbelievable!” Jacob whispered as they entered the Greek and Roman section, passing by a massive marble sarcophagus.
The plan was to sneak to the Greek and Roman exhibit, replace the artifact he was meant to steal with a replica the Vespers had created, and then deliver it to the Vespers’ ship. Thinking about the assignment left Harry nauseous for a number of reasons. If he
failed, his family would be punished in horrific ways. If he succeeded, a group of evil criminals would take a priceless treasure. But Harry knew what he had to do. When it came to choosing between his family and a piece of art — no matter how important — the choice was clear.
They strolled through the Greek and Roman exhibit casually, pretending to stop and examine every artifact. Harry could hardly believe that the statues, lamps, and even an incense burner had survived over two thousand years. He tried to imagine what relics might remain of his life in New York two thousand years from now. Would the tools for his magic tricks end up in a museum some day?
“Why did the Greeks need so many statues of headless naked men?” Jacob asked, looking at a row of sculptures.
“According to this,” Harry said, pointing to a plaque, “the head was probably broken off. But I don’t know why these guys couldn’t keep their clothes on.”
Harry instinctively turned his head away and pulled out the map as a museum guard walked by. There was nothing to be worried about yet — the guard couldn’t possibly know what they were planning — but he could feel himself tensing up anyway. He closed his eyes, stood up straight, and envisioned himself on stage. He was about to perform a routine disappearing act, nothing more. He opened his eyes and led Jacob to the target.
The artifact the Vespers wanted was tucked away in the corner of a room in the Greek and Roman wing of the museum. The gallery was full of marble statues and exotic figurines, busts of great leaders and ornate columns. But he was after a simple Hadra hydria, or water jar.
It looked like the small urns that the fortune-tellers in Coney Island used to decorate their tents and cultivate an air of foreignness, though less striking than those. Still, if the Vespers wanted it, the artifact had to be far more important than it appeared. The idea of Zoltan holding this work of art in his hands made Harry sick to his stomach.
It was locked in a glass case, and according to the plaque, it was from around 213 BC, and was inscribed with the name Theudotos, although scholars weren’t sure why. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry examined the lock on the case and was relieved to discover that it looked fairly old. It wouldn’t prove much of a problem. The locks on the doors to the museum were another matter entirely — Harry doubted that he could pick them quickly enough to avoid being caught. And worse, it had looked like they required a key to get either in or out.
Jacob nudged him. It was time to move on. A couple of poor boys in the museum were already an unusual sight — most of the other patrons were older gentlemen and well-dressed ladies.
“Why does he want it?” Jacob whispered as they walked on to the next case. “None of this makes sense.”
Harry shook his head. “No idea. It’s not really my concern, I guess. At least it’s not one of those huge paintings — I have no idea how I would carry one of them out.”
The boys wandered through the rest of the galleries, pretending to give the other artifacts just as much attention as they had paid to their target. A few minutes later, they sauntered out of the exhibit and headed back outside.
Harry would have preferred to scope out his escape route, but it was off limits to the public. He would just have to trust that the Vespers’ plan would work. As they walked out of the museum, Harry glanced back at the outside wall that he would need to rappel down on his way out. That would be after being smuggled in, making it past the night watchmen, and getting to the roof. The whole plan seemed to be one impossible feat stacked onto another, but he had no choice. The image of Zoltan stalking into Carrie’s room was enough to strengthen Harry’s resolve.
Harry parted ways with Jacob and headed for his rendezvous with the Vespers. It was time for the show.
Harry’s legs were beginning to cramp. He was crammed into a large Egyptian urn, arms clutched tightly to his sides and head tucked down. A bag containing the replacement jug had been stuffed in on top of his head, and his knees banged into his chin every time the dolly transporting the urn hit a bump. The stairs up the front of the Metropolitan Museum had been the worst. “I’m supposed to be a demolitions expert, not a delivery boy,” Bjorn had groused when Zoltan gave him this job. Harry was pretty sure Bjorn had bounced him straight up the steps out of spite.
They were lucky the vase hadn’t come apart on those stairs. It was completely fake — the paint had barely dried by the time Harry climbed inside. Still, to his untrained eye, it had appeared real enough. He needed to believe the plan would work. If it failed, Harry would go to jail for attempted burglary and his family would be murdered. He wasn’t sure whether it was the danger or the bouncing of the dolly that was making him feel sick.
The bumping finally came to a stop and Harry could hear voices through the urn’s ceramic sides.
“Delivery for Egyptian art,” Bjorn said in his thick Swedish accent. When they had been discussing the heist, Bjorn had suggested adding dynamite to Harry’s crate so that he could set the fuse and run to the artifact, creating a diversion. Harry had been relieved when Zoltan vetoed the idea — especially since, judging by Bjorn’s burned hair and lack of eyebrows, his methods didn’t always work perfectly.
“Uh-huh,” another man, probably a museum guard, said. “Do you have the bill of lading?”
There was a pause, and Harry’s breath caught in his chest. He had known the plan was crazy, but he had expected to at least get into the museum before being arrested.
“Hmmmm. This is a little unusual.” The guard’s voice came through. “We weren’t expecting this delivery today.”
Bjorn mumbled something, too soft for Harry’s ears.
Harry could hear someone opening the top of the shipping crate. A tiny bit of light filtered down around the uneven edges of the lid. Harry held his breath. All the museum guard had to do was lift off the lid, and the game would be up. Somehow Harry doubted that the museum could be convinced that a hidden Hungarian teenager was a standard feature of Egyptian urns.
Harry waited several long seconds as someone poked around at the packing materials.
“Well, all right, then,” the guard said at last. “You’ll find storage on the third floor, northeast corner. I’ll show you the way. We’re closing, so we’ll have to be quick about it.”
Harry breathed a sigh of relief as the crate was closed and the dolly began moving again. They bumped their way to the storage room on the third floor. To try to distract himself from the painful jostling, Harry counted each of Bjorn’s footsteps and each turn they made. He called up an image of the floor plan of the museum, trying to track where they were headed. After eight turns, he started to lose certainty, but he still had a good enough idea to know which direction to head when he got out.
Finally, the crate was moved off of the dolly and placed on the ground. “Okay, let’s get out of here,” the guard said. “I need to lock up.”
Harry heard two pairs of footsteps leave the room. A door closed and a key turned in the lock. As the sounds faded away, he could just make out the guard suggesting what landmarks Bjorn should visit while he was visiting New York City on his “delivery from Hungary.”
Harry breathed deeply, waiting until he was sure they were completely gone. He listened, straining his ears for any signs that someone else was in the room with him. For a minute, he heard nothing, but then he heard the scratching of a pen piercing the silence.
Someone was in the room with him.
Harry waited. It could be a curator or restorer out there, finishing up some work. The museum might be closing, but the employees could easily stay for hours afterward. From time to time the employee would stand up, or move an object from one area to another. Harry was pretty sure his feet were asleep and his legs and arms with them, but there was nothing for it. He simply waited.
After what seemed like an hour, the man finished his work. Harry exhaled as the door opened and closed, and the key turne
d in the lock once again. He waited another ten minutes for good measure, then flexed his muscles and pushed out with his arms and legs. The cheap plaster holding the fake urn together cracked open inside the packing crate.
Careful not to harm the replica in the bag, Harry reached up and used his penknife to unhook the latch. After fumbling for a moment, it gave, and he was able to push the lid off and stand up.
He swayed as he stood, nearly falling over. He stood in place, balancing on the edges of the crate as he stamped his feet to restore feeling. Finally, he was able to gingerly climb out of the box. He cleaned up the materials that had fallen on the floor and closed the lid so that no one who happened in would notice something amiss.
The storeroom was filled with crates and tables covered with pieces of artifacts in the process of classification. There were sculptures, bowls, and even another urn. On one table lay a suit of armor, completely disassembled, surrounded by notes detailing plans to fit it back together. Soft light filtered in from high windows. Glancing up, Harry could see early evening stars.
Harry padded over to the door to see what he was up against. He had spent the last ten minutes planning how to pick this lock, trying to guess the type from the sound of the key the employees were using. But there was no obstacle. All he had to do was turn a small knob and he was ready to go.
It was almost a pity that he had to wait another hour until the last workers left and he could put the plan into action. Harry retired to a dark corner of the storeroom, hiding behind some empty crates and taking the opportunity to massage feeling back into his limbs.
Sitting in silence, he tried to shut out the worries that crowded his mind. What if he couldn’t get to the Greek and Roman exhibit to take the artifact? He clutched the bag with the fake as images of Bjorn rigging his house with explosives hovered at the edge of his thoughts.
The Houdini Escape Page 4
