“I’m not going to sue,” was the boy’s only answer.
“How exactly did you get into that exhibit?” the man asked again.
“I told you. I told the guy before you. I told the guys before him, and all the way back to the guys who found me, I was in the exhibit when the sirens sounded. I tripped on my way to the door. By the time I got up, I was locked in.”
“But I was in that room. I personally can attest to the fact that our doors only lock when a room has been evacuated.”
The boy shrugged. “Maybe you’ve got a security problem.” This was, if anything, an understatement, but Mr. Wainwright was not in the mood to say so. “Maybe my mom can help you with that,” the boy offered. “She’s real good at that stuff. You know she works for Interpol.”
The woman at the boy’s side was attractive and well dressed, Gregory Wainwright could see. He had, after all, an eye for framing people; so many of them walked through the Henley’s doors every day. He knew tourists and collectors, critics and snobs, but he could not truly grasp the woman in front of him.
“How did you survive the oxygen deprivation measures?” the director asked, and the boy shrugged.
“Some old dude left his wheelchair. He must have breathing problems, because there was oxygen on the back.”
Gregory Wainwright winced slightly as one of the richest men in the world was referred to as “some old dude,” but he said nothing.
The woman began to stand. “I understand if there are waivers or documents which you will need us to sign, but I can assure you, you have no grounds to hold my son, and he’s been through quite an ordeal.”
“I’m afraid your son cannot go anywhere until he has been cleared of—”
“Cleared?” the boy snapped. Gregory Wainwright could not be sure if it was indignation or fear, but there was no mistaking the edge in his tone.
“I was under the impression that the robbery took place in a different wing of the museum,” the mother said.
The boy held his arms out wide. “Search me. Go ahead. Just tell me this: exactly what did I take?” His mother placed a calming hand on her son’s shoulder, but her look at Wainwright seemed to say that that was an excellent question.
“We have no interest in prolonging this matter, Mr. Wainwright,” the woman said coolly. “I’m sure you have many things to do today. If I could offer some advice, I’d remind you that in matters such as these, time is essential. If you don’t recover her within one week, you will likely never do so.”
“I know,” the director said, pressing his thin lips together in a tight line.
“And, of course, even if she is recovered, fifteenth-century paintings do not do well when they are shoved into duffel bags or thrown into the trunks of cars.”
“I know,” the director said again.
“And I’m sure I do not need to tell you that what happened to my son today was no accident?”
For the first time, it seemed as if the woman held his full attention. The man gaped, looking from mother to son as if he didn’t have a clue what to say.
“Someone planned that fire, Mr. Wainwright,” she said, and then laughed a very soft laugh. “But I feel silly telling you this.” Her dark red lips curled into a soft smile. “I’m sure you probably already know that it was nothing more than a massive diversion.” She held one elegant palm over the other. “A sleight of hand.”
The museum director blinked. He felt somehow as if he too were still trapped in the oxygen deprivation chamber while a fire raged outside the door. Amelia Bennett stood to her full height and gestured for her son to join her.
“I’m sure a man like you must already know that my son is as much a victim of Visily Romani as you are.”
And with that, the final child who had been locked in the Henley that day turned and walked out the door—vanished without a trace.
And Gregory Wainwright was able to go about his nervous breakdown in peace.
Day Of The Deadline
Chapter 36
Twenty-four hours after the robbery at the Henley, it was raining in Paris. Arturo Taccone’s French driver pulled his limo (a classic Mercedes, this time in dark blue) to the side of the road and allowed the man to stare out at the narrow street lined with small shops. He was not prepared for the tap on the foggy window or the sight of a girl who was too small and too tired for her age crawling into the backseat beside him.
She shook her short hair slightly, and water splashed across the tan leather seats, but Arturo Taccone did not mind. He had too many other emotions right then, and the largest of which— he scarcely dared to admit—was regret that it was over.
“I have heard that cats don’t like the rain,” he said, gesturing to her frizzy hair and drenched raincoat. “I can see that it is so.”
“I’ve been in worse,” she said, and somehow he didn’t doubt it.
“I’m very glad to see you, Katarina. Alive and well.”
“Because you were afraid I had been burned alive at the Henley, or because you were afraid I might get caught and use our arrangement as a bargaining chip?”
“Both,” the man conceded.
“Or were you most concerned that I might take your paintings and disappear myself? That they might go underground for another half century or so?”
He studied her anew. It was rare to find someone who was both so young and so wise, both so fresh and so jaded. “I admit I have been hoping that you might have brought me, shall we say, a bonus? I would pay handsomely for the Angel. She would fit in my collection very nicely.”