Chapter 19

The first thing Kat did, of course, was kick herself. She should have been expecting this. She should have heard them coming. But the alarms had been too loud and the earplugs too effective, and her mind had been too distracted by the serious work she had to do, and so Kat’s guard was down that day. But she wasn’t going to let Arturo Taccone know it.

He smiled frostily at her from the other side of the limo’s backseat, and despite everything, she was almost glad for the warmth of the goonlike bodies on either side of her.

“Your efforts are entertaining, Katarina,” he said with a slight laugh. “Ineffective, but entertaining.”

Kat thought back to the sight of her cousin slumping to the cold floor of the gallery while the Henley’s state-of-the-art defenses were put to the test by a sixteen-year-old girl. And her legs.

“I told you I wasn’t the right person for the job,” Kat said. “Now, there’s a Japanese crew that comes highly recommended. I could get you a name and number if you’re interested.”

Taccone’s dismissive wave made Kat realize that he was enjoying this. She thought of his hidden bunker, and she knew somehow that the joy he got from keeping things so beautiful and precious under lock and key was nothing compared to the thrill of following them across Europe. Paintings are just things, after all. What Arturo Taccone really loved was the chase.

“So tell me, Katarina”—he jerked his head in the direction of the grand old building that was disappearing in the distance—“what are you going to steal? Da Vinci’s Angel, perhaps? I would pay handsomely to add that to my collection, you know.”

“I’m not a thief,” Kat said. He looked at her. “Anymore,” she added. “I’m not a thief anymore.”

Taccone didn’t try to hide the amusement in his eyes. “And yet here you are.”

“I’m here to get your paintings, Signor Taccone, so technically I’m re-stealing.” Again, Hale’s voice echoed in her head. “Re-stealing is more like a double negative.”

“You think your father has hidden my paintings inside the Henley?” Taccone scoffed, a cruel guttural sound. “And exactly why would he do that?”

“Not my dad,” she said. “Remember?”

“Oh, Katarina,” he said with a sigh. “If not your father, then who?”

She thought for a moment about Visily Romani—about a legend, a ghost. But he wasn’t a ghost, not really. Somewhere in the world there was a man—a very real man—with blood and bones and the necessary knowledge to break into the most secure museum in the world, and to use that particular name to do it.

So somewhere, yes, there was a man. And his name was not Visily Romani. But somehow Kat doubted that Arturo Taccone would understand.

“I did find them, Signor Taccone,” Kat said, scooting closer, sitting up. “I can tell you where they are, and then I guess you won’t need me anymore. After all”—she gestured behind them—“as you saw, my friends and I are not really suited for an opportunity of this magnitude.”

“Ah, but Katarina, I think you’re suited quite nicely.”

He smiled at her, and Kat couldn’t help herself: a part of her wondered whether this man had more faith in her than her own uncle, maybe even more than her own father. But then again, this man didn’t care if she ended up dead or in prison as long as he got his paintings back, so maybe he wasn’t the best judge of her abilities.

“We need more time.” It was a statement, not a plea, and Kat was surprised by how steady her voice stayed as she said it. “This is the Henley. No one has ever robbed the Henley.”

“If you’re correct, then your father got through their security to place my paintings—”

“Look!” Kat didn’t know she was reaching for him until she felt his walking stick in her hands. “You don’t believe me when I say my dad didn’t steal your paintings, fine. You don’t believe me when I say they’re in that building, okay. But they are. And believe me when I say no crew is going to take on the Henley in six days. It’s not going to happen. It can’t be done.”

Kat felt the goons on either side of her shifting. She knew that in the game Arturo Taccone was playing, she had just changed the rules, and that the goons, for all their might and muscle, had never considered that anyone would ever touch their boss—much less a shorter-than-average fifteen-year-old girl.

“Did you know they’ve got at least a hundred guards working three eight-hour overlapping shifts?” Kat asked. “And they’re not cheap rent-a-cops either. Most are former law enforcement. All are well trained, and there’s a five-week waiting period for background checks before they hire any new people, so there’s no getting anyone on the inside.”

She felt her momentum building, and Taccone let her talk.

“Did you know they’ve got the same kind of surveillance cameras the CIA uses on their annex buildings at Langley? And that’s not even counting the pressure-sensitive floor panels or the electrified frames that my dear cousin was kind enough to point out. And did I mention the pressure switches? Of course, I don’t know anything about them . . . because it’s the Henley . . . and they don’t exactly post their security specs on the Internet, but you can bet your friends’ weight in gold that they’ve got sensors on the backs of those paintings so sensitive that if a fly landed on one, the whole place would lock down before you could say ‘Renaissance.’”

He smiled again, slower this time, and it sent a chill through Kat as sharp as any winter wind.

“I’m going to miss our little chats, Katarina. You should know that it’s out of respect for your mother’s family that I have tried to do this in the most honorable way possible. I’ve told you what I want. I’ve given you more than enough time to comply. And yet no one has returned my paintings.” He sounded genuinely surprised—as if he’d been waiting every day for them to come in the mail.

Kat leaned closer, and now there was no disguising the fear in her voice. “I. Can’t. Do it.”

“Don’t worry, Katarina. Six days from now, if I still don’t have my paintings, I’ll simply pay your father a visit and ask him myself.”

“He doesn’t know,” Kat shot back, but Taccone continued.

“Perhaps, by that time, his friends from Interpol will be gone and then I can speak to him myself. Yes”—he nodded slowly—“when the time comes, your father will get me what I need.”

Kat started to speak, but before she could say a word, Taccone turned to Goon 1. “Aren’t you hot in those gloves?”

But it wasn’t hot—not at all. Kat held her breath as the large man pulled the glove from his left hand and rested it on his left knee, inches from the walking stick that she was holding. When Kat had first seen the stick’s pewter handle, she had thought the ornate pattern was pretty. But that was before she saw the identical pattern on the hand beside her, a scar—a warning—seared forever into flesh.

“When the time comes, I’ll simply ask your father.” Taccone’s voice was cold and cruel. “Don’t worry, Katarina. I can be quite persuasive.”

The car slowed. Kat felt something land in her lap, and glanced down to see a large manila envelope.

“In the meantime, Katarina, I do wish you luck in your endeavors.” Again, he didn’t mock. He truly seemed to believe in her as he took back his walking stick and said, “You have so many reasons to succeed.”

Goon 1 opened the door and stepped from the car. With his scarred hand, he gestured for her to follow.

* * *

Kat stood perfectly still for a long time on the sidewalk of Trafalgar Square—the envelope too heavy in her hands. She held her breath and looked inside. Photographs. But not just photographs. There was a very different word that came to Katarina Bishop’s mind: Leverage.

She felt sick. The cold wind froze her to the bone. Red double-decker buses and bright neon lights surrounded her, reflecting off the black-and-white images in her hands. Of all the pictures in Arturo Taccone’s life, probably few had brought him as much enjoyment as the ones she held now.

Gabrielle boarding a train in Vienna, her hair blowing in the wind.

Hale striding through the lobby of a Las Vegas hotel.

Her father sipping coffee, crossing a crowded Paris square.

Uncle Eddie sitting on a park bench in Brooklyn.

The people she most cared about were depicted there in black-and-white and the message was clear: Arturo Taccone knew how to find the people and things that were important to her, and if Kat didn’t do the same, he wouldn’t be the only one to lose something he loved.

For the first time in Katarina Bishop’s life, she truly understood that a picture is worth a thousand words.

Chapter 20

Kat was late coming home. To the Hale family’s country home, that is. Kat’s only home was a brownstone in New York, and the man who ruled that household had strictly forbidden her from doing what she was doing.

She felt the envelope of photographs rub against her bare stomach, where she’d tucked it beneath the waistband of her jeans. Hiding it. The foyer was big and cold and empty. Paintings of Hales long since dead and gone lined the hall. Kat imagined them keeping watch, waiting for some living breathing member of the family to come home.

Kat missed Uncle Eddie.

She suddenly craved soup.

She wanted to talk to her father.

She took a step and felt the envelope against her stomach again, and instantly, she wanted to call everyone she ever knew and tell them to scatter—to hide. But the only people she knew were professional thieves. They never stopped hiding.

“Angus, she’s back!” Hamish Bagshaw’s voice had changed, Kat was sure of it. He sat at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for her along the way.

As he chomped his gum and grinned, his brother stepped into the hallway, carrying a bowl of ice. “Brilliant,” Angus said.

Kat wanted to keep walking, but Angus stepped in front of her.

“We were hoping we might have a minute of your valuable time,” he said.

Hamish cast a quick glance down the empty hall and then added, “Alone.”

Angus was eleven months older than his brother, and slightly taller. They both had hair that was somewhere between red and blond, and skin that looked as if it might burn even on a cloudy day. Their shoulders were broad but their arms were scrawny, and Kat realized that they were still growing—that they were still a long way from being men.

“What is it?” Kat asked.

“We’ve been meaning to talk to you for a while about . . . well . . . recent unfortunate events, and we just wanted to say—”

“Wait.” Kat stopped him. “What recent unfortunate events?”

“Well . . .” Hamish started. “We had a bit of trouble on a job a while back.”

“In Luxembourg?” Kat asked.

“Did ol’ Hale tell you about that, then?” Hamish asked. “That was a right good con, that was—”