The scene outside the Henley was exactly what one might expect under these circumstances. Shrill sirens filled the air as fire trucks and police cars raced down the cobblestone streets and blocked off a perimeter around the main entrances.
Though the security team swore that the fire had been contained, black smoke still escaped from doors and windows, and then faded into the winter breeze.
The dusty snow had turned to drizzle, so reporters stood under umbrellas as they broadcast the story around the world.
The Henley was burning. And it seemed that all of London had come out to watch the fire.
Gregory Wainwright saw his career dangling by a thread. And yet there was little else he could do while the firefighters scrambled off their trucks and school children huddled together on the sidewalks for roll call. And so the director maintained his distance from the crowd, standing with the young billionaire and his uncle, making small talk— making allies.
“Well, it was nice seeing you again, Mr. Wainwright,” Hale said, trying to pull away. “If you’ll excuse me, I really must attend to my uncle.”
“Oh, dear!” the director exclaimed. “Mr. Hale! Forgive me. I completely forgot. Here”—he looked around as if expecting a wheelchair to magically appear out of thin air—“allow me to find you someplace to rest. Perhaps I can send one of the firemen to retrieve your chair—”
“No!” Hale and Marcus blurted in unison.
“I’m fine,” Marcus said again with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I have many just like it. And you have quite enough to worry . . . ” Marcus turned to survey the still-smoking building, the crowds of tourists with their flashing cameras, and the journalists with their plastic smiles. “It does make a man wonder if that Visily Romani business was really nothing after all.”
Hale looked at Marcus, but the older man didn’t meet his gaze. Instead he tucked his hand into the lapel of his coat in the way he’d seen men of wealth do for the majority of his life. “But I suppose you cannot be blamed if two disasters happen within a month.”
Hale watched the director’s eyes narrow, first with resentment, then puzzlement.
“Coincidences happen,” Marcus carried on, but Wainwright was already doing the math, calculating the odds of a fire and thief coming to the most secure museum in the world within weeks of each other.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Hale.” The director pulled out his cell phone and set off at a frantic clip. He paused briefly to call over his shoulder, “Please call my assistant about the Monet!”
And, with that, Gregory Wainwright was gone.
“It’s not here,” Kat said flatly as she stared at the back of the final frame.
“Kat,” Simon said through her earpiece, “I’m hearing chatter on the security frequencies. I think—”
But Kat wasn’t listening. She was too busy looking at the place where the final painting was supposed to be . . . but wasn’t.
“Girl Praying to Saint Nicholas . . . Girl Praying to Saint Nicholas was supposed to be there!” Kat looked up, past Nick’s worried eyes. She completely ignored her cousin, who dangled gracefully from the vent, manipulating a long wire. Instead, Kat’s eyes scanned the room, counting, “One, two, three—”
“Kat!” Nick snapped.
“It’s not here,” Kat said numbly, still staring at the frame in her hands.
“Kat!” he yelled, and this time she met his gaze.
“It’s not here.”
Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe Visily Romani had hidden the fifth painting behind a different frame, and it was up to Kat to use her last few seconds to choose one and choose wisely.
“It’s not—” Kat started again.
But then she saw it—the small white card that was secured to the back of the frame by a single piece of tape in the very place where Girl Praying to Saint Nicholas was supposed to be.
Visily Romani had been here.
Visily Romani had done this.
Visily Romani had left a trail, and Kat had followed. She’d been more determined than Uncle Eddie, and braver than her father, and more clever than the cleverest minds at Scotland Yard. She had come so far, and standing there, watching her cousin drag four priceless paintings through the air and into the heating duct, it should have been the proudest moment of her life. But all Kat could do was stare and say, “It’s not here.”
She traced the raised black letters of the business card.
“Kat.” Nick’s voice was in her ear. His hand tugged gently on her arm. “Kat, it’s time.”
Time, the greatest thief of all. So Kat didn’t stop to ponder the question of the fifth painting’s fate.
Instinct and breeding and a lifetime’s worth of training were taking over as Kat ran to the empty hook on the wall and replaced the final frame.
She turned and saw Gabrielle dragging Raphael’s Prodigal Son by a cable, easing it inside the heating duct just as Simon yelled, “Guys, you are out of time. Get in or—”
“Here!” Nick screamed. He cupped his hands, ready to boost her up to reach the vent, but Kat didn’t take his offer.
Instead she reached down and picked up the burgundy blazer and tie where Nick had left them. As she ran her hand over the small, custom-made patch that Gabrielle had hand-sewn over the pocket, she found the words she’d said to Hale coming back to her. “Why are you doing this, Nick?”
“Guys!” Simon warned.
“Why, Nick?” she asked, moving closer. “Just tell me . . . why.”