He tried to push himself upright, but again Hale was there to discourage him.
“But, Uncle, wouldn’t you enjoy the collection more from the comfort of—”
“If you expect me to look at art from that angle, you’re as stupid as you are insolent.”
A look of complete satisfaction gleamed in Marcus’s eyes, and Kat didn’t know if he was speaking as Hale’s butler or his “Uncle” right then, but it was almost worth the price of everything to see Hale forced to take Marcus’s elbow and help him to stand.
“You know, I met Picasso once.” Marcus nodded toward a painting. “He was a pompous old—”
“Come this way, Uncle,” Hale said, still holding Marcus’s arm, but forgetting about the wheelchair and the crowds, the ticking clock and the job. Instead, he seemed to have one purpose as he crossed the room, staring at the girl in the corner.
Stick to the plan, Kat tried to tell him with her eyes.
I need to talk to you, Hale seemed to say.
The crowd was growing thicker. Hale was growing closer. Kat had the sinking feeling that maybe everything was going to run off track before it even started.
And then a voice cut through the crowd.
“Mr. Hale?” Gregory Wainwright’s voice was strong and clear. “I thought that was you. How do you do, sir?” Mr. Wainwright said, turning to Marcus.
Marcus, it seemed, was not quite as prepared to speak to other people as he was to insult Hale. “I . . . um . . . I . . . I loathe women in trousers!”
As Gregory Wainwright studied the man, Kat began to wonder if she might be allowed to share a cell with her father in prison, but then the Henley’s director did what people whose careers depend on donations always do: he smiled. And nodded. And said, “Quite right, sir. Quite right indeed.”
“Mr. Wainwright,” Hale said, snapping back into character, “how are you today?” Despite his words, he was still easing toward Kat. The clock was still ticking—too loudly—in her mind.
“Very well indeed, sir. So nice to see you again. And you”— he turned to Marcus—“you must be . . .”
“Fitzwilliam Hale,” Marcus said, reaching up to shake the man’s hand. “The . . . Third,” he added at the last second. Hale looked like he wanted to roll his eyes. Kat felt like she wanted to strangle both of them.
“Your nephew was kind enough to tell me about his Monet a few days ago,” the curator told Marcus.
“That piece of rubbish!” Marcus snapped.
Again, Hale found her gaze. I need to talk to you, he seemed to scream.
Get control of Marcus, she wanted to scream back.
“Now, at my chateau I’ve got a lovely little Cezanne— Cezanne was a real artist,” Marcus was saying, and the curator nodded encouragingly; but before the lie could go any further, a screaming siren filled the room.
Kat’s first thought was, We’re done for.
Her next thought was to glance around the room and see the cloud of dark smoke that was sweeping through the doorway, toward the precious paintings.
She couldn’t hear a thing over the wail of the sirens. All she could see through the smoke was the Henley’s director grabbing his two VWPs (very wealthy people) and pushing them toward the doors.
Suddenly, guards were everywhere. Docents appeared as if through the walls. Kat was caught in the current—just another body being pushed toward the exits, forced closer to the smoke and the wailing sirens and the even more crowded hall.
Hale turned to look behind him, searching the crowd and finding her one last time. But Gregory Wainwright had a grip on his arm, and Hale was gone with the current, washed away on a wave of fear.
“This way!” the man said, dragging Hale and Marcus along.
“But my chair,” Marcus finally remembered to say, but the museum’s director didn’t hear him; the exhibits were already locking down. And the moment for turning back was long since gone.
Chapter 32
Kat had always heard that if there was one thing the great museums of the world feared more than theft, it was fire. In that moment, she didn’t doubt it. The pulsing sirens were even louder than when Gabrielle had lain unconscious on the floor. Children screamed. Tourists ran. People crushed against each other in the smoke and chaos, rushing toward the front doors and the fresh wintry air outside.
And that is probably why the director of the Henley didn’t notice the boy who pressed against him, fighting through the crowd. He reached into the man’s interior jacket pocket for the small plastic card, freeing him of that particular burden as the crowd pushed on. Then he found his way through the smoky haze to the Romani Room, and the girl who stood waiting.
“Not bad,” Kat mouthed as the boy silently swiped the card through the reader. A red light turned green. The automatic locks were overridden quietly. And Nick smiled and mouthed, “Thanks.”
As Kat stepped inside the Romani Room, she smelled the trace of smoke that still hung in the air. She heard the roar of sirens fade behind the massive airtight and fireproof doors as they locked into place. She knew that there was only one way out.
Despite the flashing red emergency lights, the room was beautiful—the glossy floor, the glistening frames, and, of course, the paintings. There were no guards between Kat and those priceless works. No staring docents or tacky tourists.
Kat started to take a step forward, but a hand caught her arm.
“Not yet,” Nick said. He glanced up at the security camera, and Kat remembered the blind spot. She glanced at the floor and thought about the sensors.