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.