Stealing Crawford’s painting.
We get dressed together for the big night: black pants and black jackets. I feel like Trinity in the Matrix movies: ready for action.
“You’re such a cute little cat burglar,” St. Clair jokes. He’s poring over a bunch of blueprints and maps that are spread out on the table, double-checking his plan.
I trust him to plan the heist, but I am nervous. Especially about being caught on tape. After the other night and Lennox banging on the door, I want to be sure there won’t be any evidence. “How are we getting past the security cameras?” I ask. “They see everything.”
St. Clair grins. “No need to worry about the cameras. I have a software program that will intercept the security feed and loop the same footage. They won’t see us coming or going.”
I smile. “You say the sweetest things.”
He chuckles and gestures for me to come over. “Look,” he says, pointing at a map of the gallery. “This is where the paintings will be, the staging room where they keep them after unpacking.” He traces his finger along a line. “This is the night guard route, but tonight there’s a big soccer match on, so they’ll be distracted. I’m guessing they’ll only patrol during the intervals and half-time, if at all. Galleries like this don’t see much action late at night, and they won’t be expecting prowlers.”
“You think of everything,” I say, shaking my head.
“This ain’t my first rodeo,” he winks. He’s totally relaxed and confident as he packs a small bag and slings it over his chest.
But it is mine. I can only trust that St. Clair’s expertise and luck hold out.
We park a few blocks away from the gallery on a quiet street. The night has turned smoky black, the city’s lights trapped in the low lying clouds that also obscure the stars now. St. Clair opens his door and climbs out. He leans back through the open window and kisses my cheek. “Stay here, keep your head down, and be ready to drive on my signal.”
Oh, hell no. “What? I’m coming with you.”
He frowns. “It’s too dangerous, Grace. I can’t risk anything happening to you.”
“Then why did you let me come?” I ask, strangely hurt. “I’ve been in on this from the start. It was my idea!”
St. Clair looks torn. “What if you get caught? Your whole life’s at stake.”
I stand firm. “It’s my risk to take. And I want to take it.”
He looks at me like he’s sizing up how hard I’ll fight. “Fine,” he relents and hands me a small ear piece and a microphone from his bag. “Put these on so we can communicate.” He slips an earpiece over his ear and I do the same, and then we slide quietly out of the car into the night.
“Just be casual,” St. Clair whispers as we walk along shadowed walls on the way to the gallery. “The trick is, not to be noticed at all.”
I follow St. Clair’s finely shaped figure, walking along like we’re on our way somewhere, slowing to listen when he cocks his head.
We circle around to a street at the back entrance of the gallery. This is the loading dock we saw from the inside today, now totally silent and dark.
St. Clair puts out his arm, stopping me. “Wait.”
He pulls a hi-tech device from his pocket, the size of a cellphone, and taps the screen. “This will intercept the security cameras. See?” The screen shows black and white footage at weird angles – hallways and doors, from inside the building. And, the empty street ahead of us.
“Now, we just loop what the cameras are seeing…” St. Clair taps some keys. I don’t see anything change: the alleyway is still on the security feed.
“Okay, come on.” He takes my hand, and starts towards the building, but I pull back.
“How do you know it’ll work?” I ask, panicked. “What if something goes wrong?”
“I’ve done this before,” he reassures me. “It’ll work. But if you want to wait in the car…”
I pull it together. “No, I’m still in.”
My heart is pounding a million miles a minute as we walk out of the shadows toward the doors. St. Clair shows me the screen again: the cameras are still showing the looped feed. To anyone watching from inside, we’re completely invisible.
I take a deep breath, trying to relax.
St. Clair’s done this, probably a dozen times before. I need to trust him.
The irony hits me. The thing that made me not trust him is the one thing I need now more than ever. His skills as a thief, his quick mind and ability to get out of any scrape.
We quickly move to the smaller door that’s right next to the large loading garage door. There is an access panel for a security pass, and luckily we have one of those. I feel proud of my distraction today as St. Clair swipes the card and a little green light blinks. He raises his eyebrows and pushes the door. It opens. We’re in.
Inside, the building is dark, just a few security lights glowing along the walls. We slip down the hall quiet as mice, moving slowly in the dark. We’re halfway to the main exhibition hall when suddenly, footsteps sound in the hallway.
I freeze, my blood running cold, but St. Clair doesn’t bat an eye. He pulls me back and presses our bodies to the wall in a split second, with cat-like reflexes.
“Shhh,” he whispers in my ear. “Relax.”
I force myself to breathe quietly, until the flashlight passes by a few feet ahead, in the cross-connecting corridor. As the footsteps fade, St. Clair motions for me to stay.
“I’m going to check out the guard booth,” he whispers. “You sit tight, wait for me to call you on your earpiece. Okay?”
My stomach drops at the thought of being left here alone, but I force myself to nod.
“Be right back.”
He creeps after the guard, following him around the corner and out of sight. The seconds stretch, unbearably long standing here alone in the dark. My heart is beating so loudly, I swear anyone could hear from across the building.
What are you doing, Grace?
I ignore the doubts and try to focus on my breathing until finally, St. Clair’s voice crackles in my earpiece and makes me jump. “The guard booth is at the end of the next hallway,” he murmurs. “They’re watching the game, so come to me slowly. Stay low, you can crawl under the counter and stay out of sight.”
Oh God. This is it.
I don’t want to move, but I can’t stay here all night, so I swallow my fear and head over. I edge around the corner, my eyes darting around anxiously. Just as St. Clair said, at the end of the hallway there’s a large glass window into the security booth. Inside, two guards are watching the match on a small TV. As I get closer, I can hear them talking in French, occasionally grumbling at the screen or calling in excitement.
St. Clair is waiting in the shadows just beyond the booth. He beckons. I have to go right past them.
I brace myself, then bend double, and stay crouched close to the ground as I scurry the final few feet past the window, my heart pounding in my ears the whole time.
They don’t turn.
Thank God.
I join St. Clair by the next doorway. He nods at me and swipes the security card again, and then we enter the storage room where all the crates are waiting around like boulders. We spot Crawford’s crate and ease off the lid. St. Clair uses his gloved fingers to carefully lift the painting out of the crate. “It’s gorgeous,” I whisper.
“I used to love to stare at it when I was a child.” He admires the brushstrokes, the oils on the canvas seeming to shine. “I can’t wait to get it back where it belongs.”
I look around for St. Clair’s crate with the forgery we need to swap in for the real Armande. “Where’s your crate?” I ask. He searches the room with his eyes and frowns.