When he was confident enough time had passed, Harry exited the room and ghosted down the corridors, past the other storage areas and out into the Asian art exhibit. Occasionally he would hear or glimpse a guard, but he managed to slip into the Greek and Roman gallery unnoticed. In the darkness, the statues looked like silhouettes that might come to life at any moment to throw out the intruder stalking through their midst.
Harry found the water jug in its glass case, but that was no challenge. A lock pick hidden in Harry’s belt made short work of it. He had just lifted the case open when he heard footsteps coming down the hallway outside. He laid the lid down delicately and slipped behind the case, crouching as low as he could. Had a guard heard him, or was it just a routine check?
As the guard came closer, the footsteps sounded like a clock ticking down the moments until Harry would doom his family to an early grave. Harry held his breath as the guard paused in the center of the room. The light from the guard’s lantern played across the statues, casting the shadows of ancient heroes on the walls.
As the guard turned and headed out of the room, Harry exhaled. Working quickly, he opened the case and removed the jar. He opened the padded bag and pulled out the fake. Harry paused a moment, comparing the two side by side. Both bore the inscription of the Greek name, Theudotos.
It was staggering to Harry — two thousand years ago a Greek man had handled this same jar, likely even drank from it.
Harry couldn’t imagine what Zoltan wanted with a simple terra-cotta jar. If it was money, there were famous paintings and sculptures in the museum that would sell for titanic sums on the black market. Harry examined the two objects more closely. They had handles on each side and faded black decorations painted around the tops.
The only difference between the two jars was that the real one had very faint scratches on the base. Was it an etching of a diagram of some sort? In the low light, he couldn’t make anything out. The forger wouldn’t have been able to see the base when he copied the vessel. Maybe it was just sloppy counterfeiting. Or was this what Zoltan was after?
Harry shook his head. Were the scratches on the urn a map to treasure, or to some more valuable artifact? It would just give the Vespers more resources to fuel their criminal enterprises. Whatever they were planning, all Harry could know for sure was that it would be something horrifying — and now he was their accomplice.
He cautiously placed the fake jar in the glass case and gently nested the real one in his padded bag. He used his lock pick to relock the case, and a moment later, he was gliding through the hallways of the museum.
As he passed by the Roman sarcophagus, light played over it from the opposite side. Harry crouched down and flattened himself against its base. He had been too distracted thinking about his escape, and hadn’t noticed the guard returning. The sides of the sarcophagus were covered with figures of ancient Romans, either writhing in pain or dancing. He didn’t have time to look close enough to be sure — all he could tell was that their tiny limbs were uncomfortably jabbing him in the back.
The footsteps advanced and light spun around the shadow of the sarcophagus. The guard turned the corner, and Harry flattened against the marble, holding his breath and watching the guard stop and yawn. The lantern’s light shined on the statues and urns — and Harry’s blood froze as it turned toward him. Before he could move, the light landed squarely on Harry, and he heard the guard gasp.
Harry leaped up, and the guard lunged at him. The man’s right hand brushed his shirt, but Harry danced away and the guard lost his balance for a moment and fell to the floor. Harry sprinted away as the man yelled.
“Intruder! Help! Intruder!” The guard’s voice echoed through the empty hallways. Harry dodged a Roman chariot and darted out into the hallway. He could hear thudding footsteps and see lights coming from the Egyptian exhibit, so he charged into the Asian wing.
Woodcuts, paintings, pottery, and calligraphy blurred as he ran past. Twice he saw lights ahead of himself and changed course, scrambling down a different hallway. He could outdistance each individual guard, but they just kept coming. As he ran, he called up the map of the museum in his mind, trying to plot out a course that would avoid the known guards and get him where he needed to go.
Harry led the pursuit on a long loop around the building, dashing past massive paintings and what a sign said were Peruvian antiquities. Finally, when he was far enough ahead, he darted toward the curators’ offices. He could hear the guards yelling behind him, but he skidded to a stop in front of the head curator’s office. He tried the doorknob just in case, but he wasn’t going to be so lucky. Pulling out his lock picks, he knelt and started on the knob.
He rotated the tumblers until he nearly had it, but his hands were shaking, and he accidentally pushed the locking mechanism back into place. The beating of his heart and the sound of advancing footsteps mingled in a terrifying drumbeat.
As the lock finally clicked open, he could hear guards turn the corner and advance down the hallway. Harry dashed inside and locked the door behind himself just as one of them slammed into it. With the exception of the fireplace, every wall of the office was lined with bookcases, and the large desk in the middle was covered with papers and even more books.
The guards started to pound on the entrance, and Harry could hear the jingle of keys on the outside as he pushed the curator’s desk in front of the door. Just as it slid into place, he saw the knob turn.
The guards tried to open the door, but the heavy desk held it shut. Harry judged that it would keep them only for a minute. He stepped to the fireplace, nervously watching as the desk skid back and the door inched open.
Harry pulled a loop of thin rope out of his pocket and tied it around his waist, then to the straps of the bag, and set it just outside the fireplace, leaving a few feet of slack. Taking a deep breath, he jumped up and wedged himself into the chimney. He could barely make out a shaft of moonlight and stars at the top of the chimney.
Harry climbed up, pressing his back against one side of the chimney and his feet against the other. With his feet holding him steady, he put his hands back against the wall and pushed himself up. Then he worked his way up a few inches with his feet. Alternating back and forth, he made his way up the chimney. The rope pulled the bag up, and the artifact hung a few feet below him in the chimney. He could feel soot and ashes rubbing off all over his clothing and hair, with a sizeable portion sliding down the back of his shirt collar to his neck and back.
Below, he could hear the guards finally wrenching the door open. Harry just kept pushing himself higher, praying that if any of them looked up he would see only darkness. Finally, he reached the top and swung himself out onto the roof of the museum. He pulled the rope up, making sure not to knock the artifact in the bag. Once he had retrieved it, Harry slung the bag over his shoulders and headed for the front of the museum.
Harry coughed, trying to clear out the ashes choking his lungs. The cool night air on the top of the museum was a relief from the sooty chimney. The roof was broad and open, with spires lining the edges before the shingles sloped down and met with the walls.
He looked out at the starlit street, watching a horse-drawn carriage carrying a laughing couple pass by. He hitched his rope to one of the spires and then climbed over the edge.
Harry braced his feet against the bricks, then jumped back and let out rope as he fell down. He grimaced as he swung back into the wall and his legs took the brunt of the impact. It would have been nice to rappel down slowly and easily, but he didn’t have time. He pushed off again, bounding down the wall as quickly as he could.
Once down, he laid the rope against the wall and ducked down into the shadows of the building. Inside, he could hear guards shouting and could see lights playing on the windows, but no one seemed to have come outside yet.
While he waited for a horsecar carrying a load of workers home, Harr
y pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to wipe most of the soot from his face and hair. Once the street was clear again, he set off, sticking to the shadows until he was several blocks away from the museum. Stepping into the light and quickening his pace, he headed for the docks.
An early morning fog was rolling in as Harry reached the East River. Most of the ships were tied up, dark, and silent, but the Vespers’ steamship was a flurry of activity as three men used a winch and pulley system to load crates onto the ship.
Harry’s heart was trying to claw its way out of his chest as he approached the three familiar figures standing on the pier. Zoltan’s slick black hair gleamed in the light of the lanterns.
“It looks like the urchin may not be entirely worthless,” Zoltan said with the grin of a predator. Harry felt a sudden urge to punch it off his face, but his looming accomplices made Harry think better.
“I’ve got it,” Harry said. “That was my part of the deal. Will you leave my family alone?”
“I will — if it is genuine. Let me see it.”
Harry felt every muscle in his body tighten. He was moments away from saving his family — if this criminal mastermind could be trusted. He pulled the bag off and handed it to Zoltan.
The Vesper gently extracted the Greek jar and held it out admiringly. “This will be perfect for my collection. Perhaps for holding water, or the ashes of an enemy. You know, I haven’t cremated anyone alive yet. . . . Istvan, keep that in mind. I’m sure Bjorn can rig something up. ”
“Is the map still —” Zoltan shot Istvan a glance and he trailed off.
Harry wasn’t sure who Theudotos was or what had been inscribed on the jar, but he wished he could apologize to him for letting a Vesper handle his legacy. He hoped the Greeks would have understood why he did it and forgiven him.
Zoltan was nearly beaming as he walked over to the last crate on the pier. “Bjorn, help me open this. Istvan, please make sure that the boy doesn’t leave us just yet.”
Istvan’s heavy hand fell on Harry’s shoulder. He wanted to shove it off and run, but he simply stood silently and watched them pack the artifact away. The interior of the crate was constructed to hold this object — it was full of padding material but included a special spot for the artifact. Harry could barely imagine what would make this inscription so valuable, but the thought of the Vespers controlling it made his stomach twist.
Zoltan snapped his fingers at Bjorn. “This is to go at the very bottom of the hold. Put a guard on it at all times,” he instructed. “No one opens it until it reaches Vesper One. We can’t afford to disappoint him.” There was that same flicker of uncertainty, momentarily breaking through Zoltan’s poised exterior.
Harry looked into the distance, catching a glimpse of movement in the fog.
“There’s no one coming to help you,” Istvan growled.
Zoltan turned and shouted to the men on board the ship. A few seconds later, two appeared on the rails and began hauling. They pulled the crate into the air and deftly landed it on the deck.
With the ship loaded, Zoltan spun and focused his attention on Harry. “You’ve put on a good show. But the audience demands the finale it was promised. You’re coming with us.”
Harry’s insides twisted. Istvan tried to pull him forward, but he jerked back. For a moment, Istvan’s grip was broken, and Harry made to run. But he only managed to take two steps before Zoltan slammed into him, and Harry was on the ground with a blade at his throat.
“You’re coming, or your family pays the price. Understand?”
The urge to fight evaporated. Harry nodded slightly, the steel at his throat leaving him unable to speak.
Zoltan stood, with a satisfied smirk on his face.
Istvan and Bjorn hauled Harry to his feet. Despite their grips on his arms, Harry drew himself up to his full height — even if it was half a foot shorter than the men around him.
“If it means my family lives, I’ll come with you.”
Zoltan smiled with satisfaction and turned to head up the gangway. Istvan and Bjorn kept a tight grip on Harry’s arms as he followed.
The three men on the deck smirked at Harry as he was dragged on board. Zoltan beckoned for Istvan to follow him below deck, leaving Harry with Bjorn and his only slightly less menacing companions.
Their backs were facing the crate they were meant to be guarding, and Harry whispered a silent word of thanks before taking a deep breath and shouting, “Police!”
His stage training paid off. The Vespers all dashed toward the railing before turning back to Harry with cold fury in their eyes. “There’s no one there,” Bjorn snapped, grabbing hold of Harry’s arm again.
And there wasn’t. The only sounds were the grunts of the Vesper crewmen as they moved the crate toward the hold, and the thud of Harry’s rapidly beating heart.
Harry stood at the back of the ship, watching the city recede. He tried to fix the skyline in his memory. This might be the last time he saw it.
The deck creaked as Zoltan approached. Harry turned to face the Vesper, standing straight and looking him in the eye.
“I killed you before,” Zoltan began. He leaned back against the rail, utterly at ease.
Harry waited, trying to match the Vesper’s deadly calm. But he could feel his chest fluttering with every breath he pulled in.
“. . . but you’re not dead,” the Vesper added.
“Your powers of observation are impressive,” Harry said, thankful that his voice didn’t betray the fear welling up inside of him. “I got you the artifact,” he continued. “I expect you to uphold your end of the deal.”
Zoltan shook his head. “You did well, for a gutter-trash trickster. But I’m afraid I sent a telegram saying that you drowned. I don’t lie to Vesper One, so I have to remedy this . . . inconsistency.” He sighed. “And you know far too much about our mission here. Did you really think we’d let you go, with what you’ve seen?” Zoltan stood up from the rail. “The audience needs the ending that they were promised. The show must go on.”
Although every muscle in his body twitched with the need to run, Harry remained still as Istvan and Bjorn advanced on him. Within moments, his hands were chained behind his back.
“This time he’ll stay down there,” Istvan grunted.
“Should we attach a little dynamite for good measure? Maybe throw a hand grenade after him?” Bjorn asked eagerly as he fastened cuffs on Harry’s legs, attached to a heavy metal ball.
Zoltan tilted his head to the side as if considering the proposal. “No, it’s not necessary. We should save the explosives in case the coast guard decides to pay us a call. Just stick with the original plan.”
Harry looked out across the water. The steamship was gliding along the water, and the docks were starting to disappear in the distance. The lights of Manhattan gleamed in the early-morning darkness as the night shift returned home and workers kissed their families good-bye and headed to their jobs.
Bjorn shoved Harry to the ground and he groaned as they stuffed him — manacles, chains, ball, and all — into a burlap sack. The cold of the metal on his arms and legs felt like the grip of death itself, ready to pull him down to a forgotten grave on the bottom of the bay.
“You promised you wouldn’t hurt my family,” Harry said, fixing Zoltan with a glare. The Vesper had gone back on his word once already — his promise was worthless. Harry tried to banish the thought of his feeble father being thrown to the ground, but the terrible image only grew more vivid.
“I did. And since you got us the artifact, they’re no longer worth my concern. They’ll live out their insignificant little lives,” Zoltan said as the sack closed and the sliver of starlit sky narrowed. Harry’s breathing was quick and shallow, and he clenched his fists, digging his nails into his palms in a futile attempt to keep panic at bay.
&n
bsp; The men started to drag him to the railing. He struggled, trying to slow them down as best he could. He needed to buy time while his hands frantically felt for the lock on the chain that bound him. He started yelling as they hoisted him up to the rail. The weight of the ball chained to his feet nearly broke his ankle before someone grabbed it and pulled it up.
His stomach lurched as he spun in freefall.
Harry took a huge breath as he fell, filling his lungs with precious air. His earlier stuggle paid off and the lock on his hands gave way just as he was hitting the water. He’d bought himself just enough time to pick the lock on his handcuffs. But the heavy weight was still attached to his legs, and he was sinking straight down.
Harry struggled in the water, his movements slowed by chains, burlap sackcloth, and the cold all around him. His penknife slashed at the burlap fabric, but to his horror, it didn’t seem to give. Finally, he pierced the sack and managed to claw his way out. He dropped the knife and grabbed for the shredded fabric. If the material floated to the surface, the Vespers would know he was trying to escape.
Harry looked up through the murky water, trying to stay calm as his air supply rapidly diminished. He could still see the hull of Zoltan’s ship, its steam-powered paddle pushing it forward with considerable speed. It was already too far away for him to catch. There would be no hiding on the other side of the ship this time.
With a dull thump, the ball landed on the floor of the harbor. Harry reached down and quickly picked the lock on the manacles around his ankles. His body floated upward, but by holding the ball and chain he stayed at the bottom.
His lungs were burning, but he had to stay down a little longer. He watched as the hull of the Vesper ship moved farther out into the harbor. His brother Theo had once timed him at two minutes and fifty seconds with his head underwater, but at this depth it felt like he was being crushed.
Harry watched bubbles escape his nose and float to the surface, his vision beginning to blur. He needed to head for the surface, but he also needed to stay down until the ship was far enough away. If they saw he was alive, the trick would be up. This was the show. He had to fool them completely, or they would come back and take revenge on his family.
The Houdini Escape Page 5
