The Art of Stealing Forever (9 page)

“There,
in the corner.”
I
lean in, clumsily knocking the bottles over –
spilling
cleaning fluid all over the painting.

“Oh
my God!” I
yell as the liquid spills over the canvas. “I’m
so sorry!”

Marie
gasps. “Merde!
No!”

Our
cries draw attention. Everyone turns to look. “George!”
she calls in panic. “The
fix-it kit!”
A
small man runs over with a small bag in hand.

“Out
of the way,”
he
barks.

“I’m
so sorry!” I
apologize again loudly. “Can
I help?”

Marie
and George busy themselves over the canvas until George realizes that
the bottles that spilled are harmless. “It’s
fine,” he
says, glaring at me.

“Oh,
thank goodness! I can’t
believe I did that,”
I
say, playing the part as best I can. “I’m
not usually so clumsy!”

Marie
says, “I’m
so sorry, Mr. St. Clair. We don’t
usually leave open bottles of chemicals lying around. We will get
this into the secure storage room right away to keep it from…”
she
glances at me, “to
keep it safe.”

St.
Clair is charming, as always. “No
harm done. Thank you for being so quick to assist.”

“It’s
a priceless piece of art,”
she
says. “We
will do everything we can to ensure its pristine condition.”

“I’m
sure you will,”
he
says.

I
manage to keep it together until we’re
back in a cab, speeding away from the gallery. Then I lean in and
whisper, “Did
you get it?”

“Yes,
security code swiped.”
He
takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. “Good
job on the distraction, by the way.”

“Really?”
My
heart skips with pride.

“Already
a pro,” he
nods. “But
tonight is when the real fun starts. We’ll
come back and deal with Crawford’s
piece before the opening.”

“But
won’t
everyone know it’s
gone? The police will be all over the gallery. And once Lennox knows
we were there…”
I gulp.

St.
Clair smiles. “Don’t
worry, I had a replacement painted. I packed it into the back of the
crate we used to transport my painting –
it’s
right there waiting in the storage area. We’ll
swap that with the real one tonight and no one will be the wiser.”

I
glance through the plexiglass divider up at the cab driver, who
doesn’t
pay us any mind. Even if his English is impeccable, he still wouldn’t
know what we’re
talking about. I relax into St. Clair’s
shoulder. “Nice
work, Robin Hood.”

He
puts his arm around me. “Would
Maid Marian like to have dinner with Robin this evening?”

I
smile. “Only
if he doesn’t
dine and dash.”
St. Clair laughs, his full out genuine laugh that I love so much.
“There’s
a place I know just up a few blocks. You’ll
love it. Trust me.”

We
arrive at a tiny hole in the wall on the second floor of a small
building where the maître’d
knows St. Clair by name and seats us at a window table overlooking
the Seine. It’s
gorgeous, with dusk settling over the city, the blue-black sky just
lighting up with the twinkle of white stars, and across the river,
the Eiffel Tower.

I’m
so thrilled I actually clap. “The
Eiffel Tower!”
I
take in its perfectly structured form, the tapered metal tower
illuminated with golden lights shining brightly against the dark
inkiness of the sky. “I’ve
wanted to see this my entire life,”
I
say, feeling a little lost for words. “Ever
since I saw a painting of it in a gallery with my mom.”

St.
Clair smiles. “I
thought you might like this place.”

The
waiter brings us two glasses and a bottle of pinot. St. Clair pours
us each some wine and raises his glass. “To
you, Grace Bennett.”

“To
me?” I
ask, surprised. “For
what?”

He
shakes his head, and a serious look comes over his face. “I
told you, I’ve
always had to keep this part of me a secret.”
He
gazes at me with a look I’ve
never seen in his eyes before—pure
honesty. There’s
no teasing or the easy charm he’s
so good at turning on. This is him being real and I feel the
connection between us so strongly, like magnets tuned to each other’s
frequency.

“I
can’t
tell you how good it feels to not have to hide anymore, to be able to
share this side of me with you—to
let you see all of me, not just the public face I show to the world.”
He takes my hand. “You’ve
made me so happy, Grace.”

I
squeeze his hand. “You’ve
made me happy, too. Showed me what life can be like when you live to
the fullest. Thank you.”

I
realize how lucky I am, to know the joy of finding a person who
delights in the same things as you, who understands you fully, down
to your soul.

St.
Clair lifts his glass. “To
us.”

“To
adventure,”
I say.

“To
tonight,”
St.
Clair winks just like he did the day we met, as we clink our glasses
and toast to our future.

The
apartment St. Clair rented for us is gorgeous: full of French
antiques, with amazing high ceilings, cream curtains, and duck egg
blue walls. But for once, I’m
not focused on the art adorning the walls, or the incredible views of
the city. No, tonight my stomach is tangled up with nerves for what’s
ahead.

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.

“I
don’t
see it,”
he
says.

Crap!
“We
need that,”
I
say, beginning to panic. “What
are we going to do?”

“Stay
calm,” St.
Clair says. “That’s
rule number one.”

I
try to think rationally. We have just a few minutes before the soccer
match breaks, or one of the guards decides to take a look around.
There are dozens of places the painting crate could be, and hardly
any time to check them all. “You
check the back rooms then, and I’ll
look in the gallery space. It has to be here somewhere,”
I whisper.